


Prophet's Threads

by A_Fool_in_Love, BelovedFool



Series: Realm of the Elderlings: the Unseen Edition [1]
Category: Farseer Trilogy - Robin Hobb, Realm of the Elderlings - Robin Hobb
Genre: Angst, Assassin's Apprentice, Assassin's Quest, Behind the Scenes, Brief Reciprocation, Character Development, Childhood Friends, Complicated Relationships, Destiny, Drama, Epic, F/M, Fate, Fluff, Friendship, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Long, Memory lapse, Multi-POV, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Pining, Plot, Prophet/Catalyst, Roleplay-Inspired, Romance, Royal Assassin, Skill-fuckery, Trauma, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, third person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2018-09-24 00:48:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 183,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9692285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fool_in_Love/pseuds/A_Fool_in_Love, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelovedFool/pseuds/BelovedFool
Summary: History is the combination of small events, as much as it is of large ones, and this story explores the moments behind the scenes that go on to shape the events that unfold. For a Prophet and his Catalyst especially, no moment is without significance.For months, authors bandied compliments over equally amazing works of fiction. Finally, they have united to tell the unseen edition of The Realm of the Elderlings series. The first of three beasts of fiction, Prophet's Threads follows the original Farseer Trilogy, offering insight into the minds of each character with whom our heroes interact.Shoutout to the roleplay that provided the base for this fic, and for the long hours spent fine tuning and refining the details.Some direct quotations from the original works are used; all credit for the creation of the world and the people within it goes to Robin Hobb.Since the release of Assassin's Fate, the endgame of this work is no longer canon-compliant, but the details leading up to it are.Please read and review!





	1. On Commencement and Companionship - Eloquence

_The history of a place is often told in terms of the great events that happened in its time: war, famine, disease, rebellion. Certainly these things will play a role in the shaping of that land and its people. As I set my quill to parchment, however, it is not the great events that I see unfolding on the page before me. It feels like a betrayal to the histories and records that I have studied in my lessons at Chade’s feet and in my later years sitting by candlelight at my own desk. Perhaps it is the influence of my closest friend, who believes that it is the little choices one makes every day that in the end, shape the world. Whatever the reason, I find myself writing instead of the smaller things. The ones that held little meaning in themselves, but that, combined, have been the ones to shape me as surely as any war, death, or discovery. Like my friend, I have come to believe that it is in these moments that history is made._

_I have also come to learn that a history cannot be told by an individual alone. Every person experiences a world unique to that of any other. Certainly my world has been very different from that of Lady Patience, or Hands, or Chade. I have kept many secrets, and things that I took for truth have been revealed as false far too many times for me to believe that any one person can know the whole truth of the world or its history. The Fool, I think, would disagree._

_I doubt that we will ever know all that has shaped the world to be as it is today. I doubt that I will ever be able to capture a true history of the Six Duchies. Sometimes I believe it’s for the best, for it would only ever be a piece of that history. Will I continue this futile bleeding of ink onto parchment, only to consign the pages, yet again, to the flames? Perhaps. Or perhaps the Fool will rescue them, as he sometimes does, and stow them tenderly away with the rest. I cannot say what drives me to do this, but the words continue to come. Do I hope to understand the reasons behind all that has befallen me in my life? Do I hope to pour out all of my bitterness, hurt, and rage? Is it only some compulsion borne of a damaged mind? I cannot say. I can only write._

_The Fool will look at me sometimes, in a way that I believe to mean that he understands no more than I do, but that he accepts my odd habit. Sometimes I open my mouth to speak, but I have no words of explanation to offer him. We have never truly needed words, he and I. What passed between us on our first meeting went beyond words. Whatever his reasons at the time, he offered a lonely boy his hand and his friendship..._

 

 ~

    Since the loss of Nosy, Fitz had been careful to avoid showing favour to any one pup. It didn't seem right to exclude any willing comrades either, and so he found himself accompanied by a small herd of puppies to play and hunt for scraps in the Great Hall. Going too near to the kitchens was bound to earn him some distrustful looks from the staff, but he was close enough that he might chance darting in to beg some treats from the cook. Cook Sara seemed to have taken a liking to him. That would be later, though. For the moment, the pups were content to play and Fitz let them crawl on top of him, occasionally tussling one to the floor. Little whip-like tails were wagging and one of his friends growled playfully and began tugging on the edge of his tunic. Fitz played along with the tug-of-war with good humour. Burrich would probably find him soon to give him some task to do, but he was free for the moment. His free time had dwindled recently, but he enjoyed it while he could.  

    Unbeknownst to Fitz, the puppies were not the only ones who took an interest in him. As soon as he had seen the boy whom King Shrewd had spoken of as the Bastard, the Fool knew that this was what he had been waiting for. He had been beginning to doubt that his Catalyst was even here, or that he would recognize them even if they were, but now there was nothing but certainty in his mind. It was with single-minded purpose that he snuck away from the King's side, which was not hard to do considering the depth of boredom of the meeting which the King was currently attending. The Keep was large, but the Fool counted himself clever, and he found the other boy in a relatively short amount of time, though he simply watched at first, trying to figure out the sort of person with which he was dealing.

    Another pup jumped on him and Fitz released the edge of his tunic. The first toppled over, but seemed proud of his victory. Fitz scratched behind the pup's ears vigorously, but some of his enjoyment had faded as he remembered Nosy. The pups began to play amongst themselves once he failed to respond to their mock attacks and yips. He didn't like to think that Burrich could have done such a horrible thing. That night, he'd lost not only his animal companion, but also the trust he'd had for his caregiver. It was a lonely thing. He turned his attention from the pups to his surroundings, and blinked when he noticed a shock of white and colour that was very different from the black stone of the walls and the dark wood of the tables. He stared curiously.

    The Fool, who had been crouched with his elbows rested on his knees, blinked once when Fitz made eye contact with him. He then stuck out his tongue and grinned, somersaulting twice to end up sitting cross legged a few feet away from the group of puppies and causing Fitz to draw back, startled by this unusual display of behaviour. The pups, sensing his mood, ceased their play to look at the scentless newcomer. Fitz was cautious, but gradually relaxed as he realized that this must be King Shrewd's new jester. There had been some mumbling among the servants about the odd creature, though Fitz himself hadn't yet met him. The motley and unusual paleness were a giveaway. Fitz regarded the other boy, wondering whether he would play some joke on him. He had nothing to steal, and no toys to break (he still mourned the loss of the ones Regal had trodden on). The Fool didn't seem inclined to startle the puppies either. "Hello," he ventured, warily. He was surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice, and he cleared his throat. Burich had been strict in his instruction that Fitz speak like a man, not a beast, but Fitz had been reluctant to do more than say the occasional ‘yes, sir’ or ‘no, sir’.

    No answer was forthcoming from the other boy, who had been told repeatedly that the first words he uttered to the Catalyst would be of utmost importance. Rather, he had been told that the _Prophet's_ first words to the Catalyst would be important; he was the only one who believed himself to be the true White Prophet. Either way, he did not want said first words to be, 'hello,' so he remained silent, but waved cheerfully. His other hand reached forward tentatively towards the puppies, trying to coax at least one nearer.

    Fitz watched with some amount of interest while the pups investigated their new acquaintance. They seemed puzzled by the Fool's scentlessness, and Fitz was rather puzzled by him in general. It wasn't usual for people to take much interest in him now that the novelty of his existence had worn off. Still, it seemed that the newcomer wasn't necessarily bad. He seemed friendly and the pups liked him well enough. Burrich always said that animals could tell a lot about a person's character. He wondered if the other boy could speak. Either way, the silence suited him just fine. Accepting the Fool's presence for what it was, Fitz scratched behind one of the pups' ears and was rewarded by paws on his chest and several licks on the face. "You don't have to be afraid," he informed the jester, noting his tentatively outstretched hand. "They might try to eat your ribbons though."

    The Fool giggled at the thought. He imagined it would be fun to engage with the puppies the way Fitz did, tussling with them and having them nibble at him. He shook his head, meaning he wasn't afraid, and edged a little closer to set his hand on the puppy's head. Quite pleased with this arrangement, he waited until the dog got used to him, and then scooped up its tiny body and held it to his chest. The puppy wiggled, but the Fool held on, enjoying the bodily warmth that he himself lacked.

    A cautious smile began to spread across Fitz’s face while he watched. The Fool was gentler with the pups than he was, and Fitz wondered if he'd ever met a dog before. He held the pup like a doll or a babe. More comfortable now that there didn't seem to be any purpose to their interaction beyond play, Fitz ventured another question. The Fool's quiet drew him out, and the pups reminded him that it was safe, no matter how odd the jester appeared. "Do you have a name?"

    The Fool laughed this time, causing a scowl from Fitz, and there was something like the tinkling of bells mixed with a musical instrument beneath the sound. Everyone had a name and he was no exception, but his name was of no concern to his companion. Besides, it was his mother's alone to call him, and he didn't suppose he would ever love anyone as much as he had loved her, for the brief time he had known her. He simply shrugged, giving Fitz a mischievous grin. Such expressions from him usually dissuaded others from further questioning.

    It was effective, and Fitz wondered if he were being mocked. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd been made the butt of some joke, and he was reminded of Regal and his friends for an unpleasant moment. It stung. Of course it would be like that, though. He should have known better. Things had been simpler with the town children, and he missed them. He hunched his shoulders and turned his attention back to the pups. One of them whined and pawed at his arm.

    Upsetting Fitz was not the way the Fool had wanted to start this interaction; on the contrary, he wanted-- _needed_ \--to befriend the other boy. He leaned forward to place the puppy he held in Fitz's lap as a peace offering, then gently tapping the tip of his nose with his forefinger. He really was sorry, and it showed on his face. Fitz shied away, but was unable to go far with the wriggling puppy on his lap. He blinked as a cold finger poked at his nose and then frowned in confusion at the Fool. On closer inspection, his eyes were the palest of blues. They were eerie for their lack of colour, and he found it difficult to meet the Fool's gaze for long. His expression seemed contrite, and Fitz felt some of the tension leave him, along with his anger. Perhaps he'd been wrong. He picked the pup up and offered him back, holding him out. "Alright, then. You don't have to give him back. I think he likes you."

    That seemed like forgiveness, and that was good enough for the Fool, whose face split into a wide grin as he took the puppy back and hugged him. He wanted to hug Fitz too, but he surmised that would not be appreciated. He contented himself with sitting next to the boy, playing with all the puppies. Suddenly, he looked over his shoulder in startlement, as if he had heard footsteps, though there was no one in sight.

    Fitz perked up when he saw the Fool startle. The pup's ears perked up too, and Fitz quested out to him gently to calm him. "What is it?" he asked, before realizing that it was unlikely that King Shrewd's jester would reply in any way that would make sense. The answer to his question was apparent, though. His uncle, Prince Regal, was striding in their direction with an expression as though he’d trodden on some manure. He watched the approach with some dread, and hoped that he would go unnoticed.

    Naturally, in their discussion, Regal's father had dragged him all the way to the other end of the Keep; curse the old man and his penchant for walking while speaking. Regal, of course, had gotten distracted on the way back through by the various lady courtiers with whom he never had a chance to speak the first time around. He dreaded going back through the Great Hall, where all the dirty dishes and old food were doomed to sit until one of the lazy servants actually did their job, but it was the shortest way back to his chambers. To his dismay, he discovered an even larger filth: the bastard who he had neglected to acknowledge the first time through, but this time he was accompanied by the little imp his father deemed entertainment. He sneered, coming to a full stop and expecting to be addressed anyways, with the sole purpose of antagonizing the pair.

    The Fool had withdrawn his hands from the cluster of puppies as if he had been caught in some grievous ill. Indeed, he was not supposed to be here at all, but attending King Shrewd. He wondered if the King had sent Regal to come drag him back, and dreaded the prospect. He stood at once and executed a deep bow, which would have looked sincere if he had jingled significantly less. When he straightened up he took one sliding step back, not wanting to be accused of being too close to Regal's royal figure and thus contaminating him. He gave Fitz a look that suggested he should leave, but the other boy did not seem to be looking at him.

    Lacking attention, the pups began to whine and growl, but Fitz quested out to quiet them despite his scowl. He wouldn't put it past Regal to kick one of them if he noticed them, and he was reminded again of the toys that had been crushed under a merciless boot. It would be a good idea for the pups to go, and he quested the suggestion to them. Distracted as he was by that task, he failed to greet his uncle with anything more than apparent displeasure and dismissal. He looked up to see that Regal had come to a stop before them. His heart sank. It would have been better if he'd ignored them. He spared a glance for the Fool and took in his look of alarm. He didn't seem pleased to see Regal either. That surprised Fitz, but he had no time to think on the matter. He scrambled to his feet.

    Regal snorted. "Pathetic. Both of you. Although, I can't expect two...beasts like yourselves to be familiar with how one greets a Prince." He smiled, particularly pleased with himself. "If you're going to be underfoot, at least make yourselves useful like decent servants and clean this mess up." A wave of his hand encompassed the entire Great Hall. "I would order you to fix me a meal, but I do not wish to risk poisoning. Who knows what errors you might make?"

    Fitz bristled. The urge to snap at the Prince was strong, and one of the pups who'd ignored his suggestion growled, echoing Fitz's sentiment. He bowed to cover his scowl--a clumsy child's bow. Young as he was, he knew that it was important to his survival that he show some respect. Like a pup rolling over to bare his belly. "Prince Regal," he mumbled in greeting, ignoring the insult even though it rankled. He glanced at the Fool from the corner of his eye and subtly took a step closer to the other boy. Seeing his fear reminded him of Molly Nosebleed from town and the way her father had beaten her.

    With a pretentious sniff, Regal gave a curt nod. "Better. Now get out of my sight, and take this--" He grimaced down at the puppies-- "Barn filth out of my Keep. They live in the stables for a reason, and you'd do well to remember that that's where you belong too, bastard." He looked down his nose at Fitz. He looked as though he believed he held more authority than he really did.

    The Fool could stand for being picked on by Regal, but that did not mean others had to suffer as well. He tapped Fitz on the shoulder, waited until the boy looked at him, and then did an impression of Regal's stuck-up visage, though he crossed his eyes when he did it. A laugh was startled from Fitz as he stared, despite his horror. He couldn't believe that the strange boy would dare such disrespect. The grin dropped from his face a moment later and he whipped around to face Regal, holding his breath. Should they run? He wet his lips and wondered if they would make it. He could grab the other boy and flee, but would the consequences be worth it?

The look of horror that crossed Regal's face was one that he reserved only for...in truth, he had never used it, but he had practiced it in the mirror constantly. He had never envisioned a chance to use it, and he had hoped he would never had to. That someone would mock him such, even if it was his job, was beyond unimaginable. The King would be hearing about this. Following his frozen shock, he stepped forward, intending to drag the Fool to King Shrewd by any part of him he could reach, but the pale boy was two steps ahead of both him and his bastard nephew. As soon as Fitz had laughed, the Fool had grabbed his arm and tugged, planning to run as fast as they could, which was faster than Regal in his flowing cloak and high boots.

    Fitz was startled to suddenly be running, but it was a good idea and another laugh escaped him. It was possibly the purest thing the Fool had ever heard, and it triggered a laugh of his own. Fitz fell into step beside the Fool and felt a rush of excitement. There would be consequences later, but it had felt so good to see Regal looking so appalled. He could run more easily with full range of motion, so he tugged his arm out of the Fool's grip and took his hand instead. They could hear Regal's footsteps pounding the stone behind them, but it was obvious that he was falling behind, probably because he considered himself too dignified to run. The Fool pulled Fitz around a corner and immediately down a short flight of stairs which led to a dark hallway, one of the passages used by servants. He stopped then, confident that Regal would rather die than look for them down there.

   "Fool," Fitz admonished in a scandalized whisper, "you must be mad!" He could not stop himself from grinning while he caught his breath, nor could he bring himself to be seriously upset. Not when Regal's face had turned such a dark shade of magenta. He glanced back the way they'd come, but Regal didn't seem to have followed them. His heart was still racing, and he fought the urge to laugh again, not wanting to make much noise in case he was mistaken. He let go of the Fool's hand and pushed some strands of hair out of his eyes. He couldn't see as well in the dark since Nosy--he pushed the thought aside firmly--but there was enough light to make out the shape of his friend.

In truth, the Fool had been called worse than mad, and from Fitz it sounded almost like a friendly accusation. He wasn't sure if he was mad or not, but if so then it was certainly great fun. He made a great show of putting his hand to his ear and listening for Regal's footsteps. When all was quiet, he took Fitz's hand and let him back up into the light.

    Fitz looked down at their joined hands, but then accepted the contact. "You're cold," he commented, not having noticed it in the heat of their flight. He tightened his grip minutely, hoping to warm him. The Fool's skin was as cold as a fish, and that couldn't be comfortable. As they emerged into the light, Fitz wondered what they would do now. The pups had probably scattered or decided to content themselves with the bones and scraps that could be found on the floor of the hall. Having just discovered someone that he might be able to call a friend within the Keep, he was a bit reluctant to end their time together. "I suppose after that, Regal won't be going back near the kitchens. I can ask Cook Sara for something, if you're hungry. If you want to eat together." There was a chance he wouldn't want to, after all. He might not, after seeing what trouble befell someone who befriended the royal bastard.

    The Fool found himself subconsciously squeezing Fitz's hand back. They just seemed to connect so well already, as a Prophet and Catalyst should. Nodding eagerly at the suggestion, he stepped back and made a grandiose gesture towards the kitchen, accompanied by a proper bow--far more respect than he had shown Regal--that clearly communicated, 'Lead on.’

    Fitz nodded, giving the Fool a lopsided smile for his antics. The other boy had a voice, that much he'd heard from his laughter, but he seemed unable or unwilling to speak. He might be a bit simple, as well--a natural fool. That was alright. Fitz found that he liked his new friend. He asked the Fool to wait while he ducked into the kitchens. From Cook Sara he begged some bread and cheese, as well as apples and a handful of ginger biscuits. The apples and biscuits he put into his pockets, and he balanced the cheese and bread in both his hands. Cook Sara tutted something about growing boys, and he thanked her with a smile.

    When he saw Fitz coming with his spoils from the kitchen, the Fool clapped his hands eagerly. That was far better food than he was accustomed to, although he was not particularly picky. He looked around--over both shoulders, up at the ceiling, down--and shrugged, having no idea where they were to go to enjoy this gracious meal. He supposed they could just as well sit in the middle of the floor; he himself had done that before, but he was not sure Fitz would appreciate it.

Fitz read his confusion and shrugged. "The gardens, maybe? There will probably be people, though." He doubted that Burrich would appreciate him bringing the Fool back to the stables, and the men-at-arms room would be awkward. It had been days since he'd been able to sneak out to town, but today seemed to be a good day for avoiding Burrich's attention and he was feeling adventurous after their escape from Regal. An idea occurred to him."We could go down to the beach?"

The idea of the gardens pleased the Fool, but his eyes widened so much that they seemed in danger of popping out at the mention of the beach. Since he had first come to Buckkeep, he had not left it. The farthest he had gone was the front gate to relay a message to some guards. He never would have felt safe going down to Buckkeep Town on his own, if his treatment up here was indicative of the general attitude towards one who looked as he did. But he was with Fitz, who clearly knew the town well and who was bigger than the Fool, and thus, in the mind of a child, more capable. He nodded tentatively.

    Lunch was a small thing, but in that moment it felt enormous. Fitz smiled, feeling some relief at the pleased look on the Fool's face. He'd fallen in with the town children easily enough, but none of them had known him as anyone other than Newboy. For someone to actually want the Farseer Bastard's company was...it was good. It was frightening at the same time, though. He hadn't known how lonely he was until he was confronted with the idea that his new friend might change his mind. He frowned a bit to himself. Well, if he did, that was fine, he told himself--staunchly pushing what felt a bit like hope back into line. He fished a handkerchief from his pocket, balancing the bread and cheese in one arm, and inspected it. Clean enough. He set it down on the ground, then bundled up their food so that it would be easier to carry on the walk. "Come on, then," he said, almost gruffly.

The Fool held out both of his hands, offering to carry the bundle if Fitz wanted his hands free. He felt strange, like there was a plethora of small animals running around the inside of his limbs. It made him feel energized, and it was overall a good feeling. He put a hand to his cheek to see if maybe it was causing some kind of body heat, but he was still lacking in that department. No matter. He turned his attention back to Fitz, ready to go.

 It was probably nothing, but Fitz frowned at the Fool, wondering what the hand he'd pressed to his cheek meant. He passed the bundle to his friend and then led on. He'd discovered that if he comported himself with enough confidence, the guards wouldn't question one more page boy off on an errand to town. He wondered how they would react to the Fool, but thought that perhaps being the King's Fool meant that he could come and go as he pleased. "If they turn us back, I know a tree that's good for climbing over the wall," Fitz said, thinking aloud. The Fool seemed to have a way of getting his words out. Perhaps it was because the boy had no words of his own. Burrich had prompted him to use his 'yes sir's and 'no sir's, but he hadn't spoken this much willingly in a very long time.

Since he had never tried to leave the Keep, the Fool was unsure if he would be allowed, so he was quite glad for Fitz's alternate suggestion. Then again, no one seemed to pay him much attention if he was not actively performing, and he doubted they cared where he went. It would most likely be assumed that he had the King's leave to go wherever he wanted. The guards did give the two boys a strange look, or maybe it was just the sight of the Fool outside and with a purpose. Other than that they seemed to be indifferent, but the Fool gave them a cheeky wave over his shoulder as he and Fitz started down the road.

Fitz shook his head at the Fool's silliness, but smiled all the same. The Fool was a strange one, but there was an honesty to his strangeness that Fitz rather envied. It must be nice to be able to behave however he wanted. When he thought about doing the same sorts of things, though, Fitz didn't think that he could do it. To be a fool meant being in the centre of attention, and Fitz thought that it would be rather uncomfortable. The road to Buckkeep town was a rather long one, but it took far less time to find a good spot on the beach. There was some amount of foot traffic, but no-one paid much mind as Fitz tugged the Fool off the road. "This way," he said. "It's faster than going through town." To get to the beach, they had to traverse a way through brush and bramble, but it would be worth it. The ground dropped off eventually into a steep hill that was a bit tricky to navigate, but the beach that they came to was empty, had more sand than rock, and had plenty of space, even at high-tide.

The Fool was a little apprehensive about trudging through the plants, both because he didn't want to crush anything and because he didn't want to rip his clothes. He was slow going, and he had to stop to untangle himself a few times, but eventually he made it. He felt bad about slowing Fitz down and hoped the other boy didn't mind; he did not. He patiently helped the Fool untangle himself a few times, and gave him an encouraging smile. "This is it," he said when they arrived. He felt a bit nervous, now that they'd reached the beach. It wasn't a very remarkable place. He liked it because it was quiet except for the sound of the waves, but perhaps the Fool would have preferred somewhere more eventful. He gestured to a fallen log. "We could sit there, if you like."

Approaching the log, the Fool looked it over and then sat himself down cross-legged in the sand. It was warm and soft, and he distractedly placed the bundle of food on the log beside him so he could unlace his boots and pull them off. He pushed his toes into the sand, wiggling them a bit and giggling.

Fitz found himself oddly charmed by the Fool's innocent pleasure in the sand. He wondered if his companion was able to get out of the Keep much. He sat down on the log next to the Fool and kicked his boots off as well before beginning to ration out their food. "Do you like it?"

The Fool nodded, his appetite momentarily staved off by his delight in the beach. He rolled to his feet and, after running his toes through the sand again, turned a series of cartwheels to express his joy and to try to tame the excitement building in him. Fitz laughed, watching the display of acrobatics with amazement. The Fool ended up on the other side of the log and sat down, breathless from excitement and not exertion, and Fitz felt an echoing smile pulling at his lips. The freedom was nice. Being out of the Keep felt like a weight off of his shoulders. He didn't have to be the Bastard here. He didn't have to see the scornful looks or hear the gossip that permeated the Keep. "I like it too," he said simply. "I used to go into town, sometimes. I'd go down to the beach there and steal saltfish from the racks, or run messages for coppers. Burrich won't let me go anymore, though."

    Mimicking the highly overdone expression of a mesmerized listener when subjected to a skilled orator's tale, the Fool dropped his chin into his hands and watched Fitz. He frowned at the mention of Burrich, though. He had met the man a few times, and he simply could not get through to him. It was true that Burrich did not abuse him or mock him, as did some others, but the stablemaster seemed to simply take no notice of him. He ignored him completely, or brushed him off. For a jester, that was a bad sign, and Burrich had become a sort of personal vendetta.

Fitz, encouraged by the Fool's silence and his apparent interest, continued without his usual reticence. He hadn't told anyone about his adventures in town before. Only Nosy had shared those memories with him. The words came freely. "It isn't fair," he complained. "I liked it better there. I could have slept on the beach. Burrich never missed me because he was always working or drunk. I don't know why he wanted me back." And that frustrated him almost to tears. No-one wanted him, so why did Burrich have to take away all of his friends? Why did he have to kill Nosy? But as unhappy as he was about that, he needed Burrich. He was the closest thing to family that he had. Frowning, Fitz changed the subject. "Where did you come from?"

 The Fool had cocked his head in concern at Fitz's lament and he found it moved him deeply. It was no fun being alone, and the Fool knew that from experience. It was why he had to make his own fun. He hesitated a moment after the other boy asked his question, but after a moment of thought stood, coming around behind Fitz. Gently, he took his hand and raised his arm so he was pointing off to the south. He rested his chin on Fitz's shoulder as he did this, since that was naturally where it fell.

"South," Fitz said, not minding the contact. He didn't touch many people, and perhaps it should have been strange, but it was only comforting. "Bingtown?" he guessed. He didn't know much of geography.

The Fool giggled and shook his head. No, much farther than that. The movement caused some of his hair to brush across Fitz's cheek, and one of the bells on his hat bumped lightly into the back of his head. Having conveyed his message, he swung himself around to sit on the log beside Fitz, one leg on either side

Fitz shook his head too, then rubbed his cheek to get rid of the tickling sensation that was left there. The Fool's hair, he noticed, stood around his head like dandelion seeds where it peeked out from beneath his jingling hat. It was another odd thing that seemed to fit with all of the other odd things. "Sorry," he apologized. "I don't know many places." He took their loaf of bread and broke it in two, offering the other half to the Fool.

The Fool accepted with a grateful nod and smile, breaking off small pieces of the bread before popping them into his mouth. It was most definitely fresh, and it had most likely been warm from the oven when Fitz had received it. That only seemed to bring out its flavour, and the Fool had to stop himself from simply devouring the whole thing wolfishly. Fitz, however, was less conscious of manners, having only the men-at-arms or the town children for examples. No one would have taken him for a prince of the blood. While they ate, Fitz considered the Fool. Beneath the unusual colouring of his skin and his garments, he was small and waiflike. He must have been strong to do his flips and somersaults, but Burrich probably would have said he needed a few good meals if he were an animal in the stables. Fitz wondered how far south the Fool had come from, and whether he'd come alone. Buckkeep castle was a strange place for someone like the Fool to end up. Well, he was here now.

    "Burrich says that horses need good food if they're going to do good work," Fitz advised, putting the lion's share of their wedge of cheese into the Fool's hands. For all that Burrich was a gruff and formidable man, he had gentle hand with the beasts - except Nosy, Fitz thought with a pang. That had been his own fault, though. He'd called it the Wit magic, and Fitz didn't know what that was, but Burrich didn't like it. Since then, Fitz hadn't favoured any one animal, but he hadn't thought about other human. Vaguely alarmed, Fitz quested out towards the Fool and was relieved if a bit disconcerted when he could find no trace of his friend through that sense. Burrich wouldn't take him away if Fitz couldn't join minds with him.

The Fool looked up at Fitz, making a horse-like snort both for comedic effect and to remind his friend--was he a friend? The Fool hadn't had one before, but he had never thought it would happen so fast--that he himself was not a horse, but a human child. He wondered what Fitz's purpose in sharing his equestrian knowledge was and if he intended some deeper meaning with it. He had to remind himself that not every held words in as much significance as he did.

Fitz dug his toes into the sand and grinned at the Fool's horse imitation. Things were going well, he decided. "I can't believe that you made mock of Regal right in front of him. Does being the King's fool mean that you can do that?"

Struck by a fresh idea, the Fool nodded and held up a finger to signal to Fitz to wait. He finished his mouthful of the cheese and stood, seeming to pull himself into character before doing another imitation of Regal, only this time it was his scandalized expression the Prince had adopted after the Fool's initial mockery. One hand went to his chest, his brows drew together, and his mouth dropped into an 'O' shape.

Fitz burst out laughing, an undignified belly laugh that almost made him drop his cheese. He didn't think that he could remember ever laughing like that. Not even when he and Kerry had stuck those fish under the innkeeper's tables, or when he and Nosy escaped with a whole string of sausages. He clapped dutifully when he was done.

The Fool swept his hat off in a performatory bow, keeping the doubled over position just a beat too long. He then stood back up, giving Fitz a winning smile. He lifted his hat back up to his head, but paused and cocked his head at the other boy. He then took a few steps forward and plopped the jingling hat on his friend's head, stifling a small giggle.

   "Hey!" Fitz protested, but still straightened the hat reflexively. He blushed, feeling self-conscious, and at last snatched the thing off of his head. "It looks better on you than me," he grumbled, reaching up to jam the thing back over the Fool's wild hair.

Amused at how embarrassed Fitz had been over the action, the Fool wiggled his eyebrows,. He straightened it on his own head and then fixed his hair, which had been sticking out unevenly. A royal fool was supposed to look ridiculous, but it was a structured ridiculousness. He sat back down on the sand, cross-legged and looking up at Fitz.

Fitz glowered, but he wasn't seriously upset. At last, he huffed and tossed an apple to the Fool, shaking his head at the eccentricities of his new friend. He let their one-sided conversation lapse into silence, but it wasn't a bad one. He didn't feel any pressure from the Fool to say or do anything, and it was relaxing. He amused himself by tossing a few pebbles into the waves, testing how far he could throw. Only when food and idle entertainment were done did he speak again: "We should probably go back soon. It's almost sunset." The words came reluctantly. It had been a good day, and he was sad to see it ending. Would he see the Fool again?

The Fool looked over his shoulder, staring at the sun that was sitting low in the sky. He traced an invisible tear down his cheek with a forefinger, then shrugging and bouncing to his feet. He held out a hand to help Fitz up and had a much easier time going back through the forest than he had on the way there. The road also seemed longer on the way back to the Keep, but perhaps that was because it was uphill. He waved at the guards again when they approached the gate, but there was another man at the gate as well. It was none other than Burrich, the Fool's personal challenge. All desire to try to make the man laugh disappeared, however, when he saw the expression on his face.

As soon as Burrich saw the top of Fitz's head come into view, Burrich started down the road, his gait clearly conveying his anger. His expression was even worse: the tendons on his neck stood out, there was high colour in his cheeks, and his lips were pressed together. "Where in El's name have you been boy?" he snapped, spittle flying on the last word. "Do you have any idea how--" He did a double take upon noticing the Fool. He had no comment, however, as he did not know exactly what to make of his stableboy's company. He almost grabbed Fitz by the ear, as his grandmother had done to him, but went for an iron grip on his bicep instead. "You have so much explaining to do."

Fitz's mouth went dry as soon as his eyes met Burrich's. The hand on his arm was hard and unyielding, but Fitz didn't dare complain. Burrich's fury was radiating from him, and Fitz could do nothing but freeze in the face of it. The last time he'd seen Burrich this angry, Nosy had paid the price. In that moment, he saw again the short leather lash and felt the consuming loneliness that filled the place where Nosy's mind and senses had once comfortably rested. His heart began to race, and he was sure somehow that Burrich was expecting him to say something, but his mind was blank. He had to say something. He had to. No words came. He stared up at Burrich with wide eyes, and then glanced at the Fool, suddenly terrified for his friend. It didn't matter that he couldn't touch minds with him. What if Burrich didn't like them being together anyway? It was an unthinkable thought. He took a quick breath and words came, short and halting. "Don't hurt him," Fitz said in a little voice, half plea half prayer. Emboldened, wondering if he would dare _repel_ against Burrich if he had to, then knowing that he would, Fitz's fearful gaze turned into a glare. He wouldn't take a second friend from him. It was a snap decision, but his desperate anger and fear made him reckless and he began to struggle and then _repelled_ with all his might. If he broke free, they could run. They could go to the beach or the town or far away and never come back.

Burrich grunted. His grip loosened on Fitz for a moment, but the boy was still weak and uncoordinated with his powers. He grabbed him even harder, giving him a good shake. "Listen to me, boy, why won't you ever listen to me?" He sighed angrily. "You know why I don't want you down there. Why do you have to fight me on everything, Fitz?" He swung the boy around and gave him a little shove towards the stables--not enough to make him fall, but enough to cause him to stagger and propel him in the right direction.

The Fool gasped and his hands flew up to cover his mouth. Fitz. Burrich had called him Fitz. The Fool had thought that his Catalyst was almost as nameless as himself, but now he could not imagine a better name for him. Fitz. He tried to catch Fitz's eyes as the boy was pushed away, but Burrich, still ignoring him, had stepped into his field of view and marched behind his Catalyst to the stables.

    Fitz’s brief flash of rebellion had been thwarted, but not entirely unsuccessful. Burrich had let him go. Fitz chanced a glance over his shoulder, wondering if he could still run. He hadn't even been able to ask the Fool if they would see each other again. Burrich brought him back up to the chambers in the top of the stables and locked the door. He sat down at the table and poured himself some brandy. "I had just started to trust you again," the stablemaster growled, disappointed.

 Fitz scowled, sullen and unrepentant. He said nothing, but his expression was eloquent: _murderer, captor, leader_. Burrich was unquestionably in charge, but Fitz didn't have to like it. He hated him for killing Nosy, he hated being kept like a prisoner, and he hated how much he still cared what Burrich thought of him despite all of that. Angry tears began welling in his eyes and he wiped them away on his sleeve.

    "Boy," Burrich snapped. "Look at me when I'm talking to you. You have no idea how important this is. Last time you went into town, you got yourself into trouble. I found you stealing, bonded to a puppy you had no business corrupting!" He sighed. "Where did I go wrong?"

    Fitz continued frowning and stubbornly refused to look at Burrich. His anger simmered away, and he thought briefly about smashing Burrich's brandy bottle. That would doubtless earn him more than a cuff on the ear, though, and be resisted the urge, barely. He clenched his hands into tiny, useless fists. "I had friends in town. Nosy was my friend too."

    Burrich shook his head slowly. "I told you. What you did with that dog wasn't natural. I just want to do right by you." He stood, standing in front of the fire, clutching his brandy bottle by the neck and staring into the flames. "I know you think you're doing right, but you'll see when you get older, and you'll thank me."

    Thank him? Fitz's shock at the statement was like physical pain. How could Burrich think that Fitz would thank him for murdering his closest friend? He pressed his lips into a thin line and then crossed to the pile of blankets that served as his makeshift bedding. He stared down at it and then kicked it soundly before laying down and curling up beneath one of the blankets. He buried his face to hide the furious tears that tracked down his cheeks. "I won't ever thank you," he mumbled into the fabric.

    Burrich grumbled low in his throat. "You sound like me when I was your age." There was an odd undertone to his voice, but it was unidentifiable to the boy. He set the brandy bottle down on the mantle and pulled his shirt off to crawl into bed. "I wish you understood."

    Fitz knew he would never understand. He never wanted to understand. He sniffled and tried to stop the tears that wouldn't stop coming. He didn't bother to reply to Burrich. As the silence stretched, he eventually fell into an exhausted sleep.

 ~

_“Most people remember only their very first words to their closest friends, if they remember the early stages of their relationship at all. Some simply hold to their heart the feelings evoked, or the plethora of memories that led them to the unbreakable bond they share today. I strive, however, to remember everything that has passed between myself and my Catalyst--also my dearest friend._

_“The depth of love I felt from the moment I laid eyes on him can only partially be attributed to the Prophecies. As a child, and one whose abilities were doubted even by those closest to me, I had no idea what to expect or how to proceed. All I knew was that the Prophet and the Catalyst were supposed to have a connection; and so a connection is what I made. It is only natural, when told repeatedly that one person will be the most important soul in all of Time, and that it is a personal responsibility to guide that soul, that a bond deeper than most people could ever hope to achieve is formed._

_“This is not to say that anything I feel for my Catalyst is contrived; rather, it is the most honestly and naturally I have felt for any person, and to try to describe our bond in any other way would be unthinkable.”_

_\--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet_


	2. On Commencement and Companionship - Foundation

_ As a child, I was taught to believe that the magic known as the Wit was a thing to be feared and reviled; a thing that belonged solely to base villains, with all the carnal instincts of a beast wed to the darker motivations of a man. I also believed that the Skill magic was the province of the Farseers, and that it was a higher magic to be respected and revered. All of these things, I have learned to be false. The Wit is not a thing to be ashamed of, and the Skill can be used to cause far more grievous harm than any physical weapon. Any person can be gifted with magic, though some magics are more common among people with a certain heritage. Simple hedge-magic appears to be the most prevalent here in the Six Duchies. _

 

_ There are many other types of magic than these. Of particular relevance to me has been the magic of prophecy gifted to those of White blood. When I first learned of it, I was too young to fully understand what was explained to me, and I spent many years disbelieving that such a magic could exist, despite the evidence presented to me. Though I was ignorant of the implications of such foresight, that did not prevent me from being affected by it for the whole of my life. My Prophet has manipulated and bullied me into the proper path countless times. I am still uncertain as to my feelings about this. At times, I even doubted our friendship. Currently, I am of the mind that our friendship and his magic should be thought of as separate things. Still, I find myself at times looking back on some of the smallest of our moments together and wondering if even they were not tinged with purpose. Have any moments truly been our own, or have all of our interactions served to shape the course of time? I wonder, but I am not sure that I would like to know the answer. _

 

Fitz had, under Burrich's watchful eye, resumed his daily routine. It was one that he chafed under, and the weight of Burrich's gaze felt oppressive. He dogged Burrich's heels during the day, following him while he went about his tasks, and taking meals beside him. For the first few days, Fitz kept an alert eye out for the colourful Fool, but as time wore on, he began to despair of ever seeing his friend again. His mood did not improve, and his sullenness did not improve Burrich's either. At last, an opportunity came for Fitz to escape his supervision. A mare was having a difficult birth, and Burrich would be occupied for a time. Fitz thought briefly of running down to town, but another longing took him instead to the small patch of beach. It was empty. He didn't know why he'd thought the King's Fool would be found there, but the disappointment was sharp. He hadn't the heart to continue on to town after that, and turned back for the Keep. The place was busy with people coming and going, all in fancy dress or bearing carts of food and ale kegs. Fitz dodged between legs and wheels, and no-one paid him any mind. There must have been some celebration up at the keep. He hadn't been invited, and he had no wish to go. Time had taught him where he was welcome and where he was not. His stomach rumbled thinking of food, though, and he turned toward the kitchens. They would be busy, but he'd likely be able to beg some pastries from the cook.

The celebration was, in fact, a large one, and a number of the nobility from the inland had come to court the youngest prince’s favour. Regal disliked him strongly, so it made little sense to the Fool that his services were required. In any case, it was no different than any other party, and any one of those that Regal threw was a flying disaster, at least in the Fool's opinion. However, that wasn't to say that he couldn't liven up the occasion. He managed to convince a lady courtier to liken Regal to a peacock, which she thought was a compliment but was the one thing the Prince hated. Marking his success, the Fool skipped away, retreating to a corner of the room to watch for his next target. 

As he surveyed the large dining hall, a flurry of movement caught the corner of the Fool’s eye. He stared hard at the spot where it had been, and it was only after some inference that he surmised it must have been one of the children. He did a quick head count of the children he knew had been invited, but they were all there. Newly heartened, he decided to follow the darting figure's general path. He brightened even more when he realized it led to the kitchen, and he entered the kitchen at a full sprint, just barely dodging around Cook Sara as she bustled about. As he came around her, however, he saw Fitz with a handful of pastries and skidded to a halt right in front of him, nearly colliding. A huge smile was plastered on his face and he threw his arms up as a salute. 

Fitz gaped. He nearly dropped his pastries. After days of melancholy and searching, the Fool was suddenly before him as full of colour and energy as before. "Hello, Fool," he said dumbly, eyes wide. 

The Fool laughed at Fitz's reaction, but the sound trailed off into a soft exhale. He scarcely dared to believe that Fitz was excited to see him again. He grabbed his arm gently but urgently and tugged him out of the kitchen and through the dining hall, away from the party. 

Away from Cook Sara's disapproving gaze and the bustle of the kitchen, Fitz could finally feel his surprise fading. He was overjoyed to see the Fool again, but perhaps just a bit hurt that the other boy hadn't sought him out earlier. He bit his lip. "I missed you," he said, once they'd found somewhere quiet enough to speak. "I worried I wouldn't see you again." 

The Fool looked taken aback when he was told he had been missed. He was nobody: why should anyone think about his company when he was not providing it? He kept his hand on Fitz's arm, but his grip lightened until it was as if his fingers were just hovering there. "Fitz," he breathed softly, smiling up at him.

Fitz's eyes widened even further. He opened his mouth and then shut it again, astonished. He blinked. "You... You can talk?" he said at last. A slight blush began to spread across his cheeks, and he felt rather silly. He'd spent all that time talking at the Fool, thinking that he couldn't reply. He didn't think that he would have said nearly as much otherwise. His face burned. Had the Fool been playing a joke on him after all?

The Fool nodded slowly, a wonderstruck expression in his eyes. They had been right; his first word to the Catalyst had been the most important event in his life thus far. It had released something in his chest that he would liken to a bird breaking free from a cage, or a flower bursting into bloom. He forced his eyes to meet Fitz's, seeking some sort of similar feeling within their dark depths. "I missed you too." 

The blush gradually began to fade from Fitz’s cheeks and he relaxed, taking in the Fool's earnest expression. He wasn't sure what he looked like, but he had to blink at the sudden welling of moisture in his eyes and tightness in his chest. His mother had given him away, his father had never deigned to meet him, and Burrich had never seen him as anything but a burden. No-one had ever wanted him before, never mind missed him. Without conscious effort, he raised his hand and gripped the Fool's arm in return. It was almost a warrior's clasp. "... You did?" he asked, hardly daring to believe it. 

"Yes," said the Fool. His tone was still reverent; this boy here would grow up to be the most important man in the whole world, possible the most important man in all of Time. He far surpassed any deity that the Fool knew of, for those were idle gods, content with letting the world sink into chaos. The Catalyst would change that, and the Prophet had found him. He wanted Fitz to understand exactly how important he was. 

Fitz blushed again at the matter-of-fact confirmation. He felt a smile tug at his lips, and he let it widen across his cheeks. It was a boyish, unselfconscious thing. He was bursting with things to say. Why hadn't the Fool found him earlier? Would they see each other again? What was his name, and where was he from? He wanted to tell the Fool about Nosy and about fish under tavern tables. He said none of those things, though. He felt he didn't need to. This time, he fell into silence, content in their understanding that was deeper than words. 

"Oh," said the Fool. It was a noise of remembrance, as if the Fool had just reminded himself of something. He stepped back from Fitz and began searching the many pockets cleverly hidden in his motley. He made a faint sound of delight when he found what he was looking for, and held it out to Fitz. What it was was a feather: mostly grey, but near the tip it changed gradually to a deep Buck blue. It was a little disheveled, having been tucked into a pocket, but the Fool straightened it out presented it once more. "For you." 

Fitz took the feather and looked at it, turning it between two fingers. "For me? Why? Er. Thank you."

The Fool could not stop smiling at the other boy. "It's important," he said. He did not know why it was, but he could tell. Usually, that meant it would be significant in the future. A particularly loud laugh from the party through the door drew his attention and he tore his gaze from Fitz to glance at the hall. He hoped no one was angry about his absence. 

Fitz tucked the feather into one of his pockets, accepting its importance with a child's ability to take things for what they are. He glanced at the door and then back at the Fool. He held out one of his pastries, feeling like he should give the Fool something too. "Do you, um..." He wasn't sure why it was suddenly difficult to form words around the Fool. 

"Do I...?" The Fool looked back to Fitz with a giggle. El take the party, he had never cared for it anyways. "I do many things," he said with a grin, but then noticed the pastry Fitz was offering. "Thank you," he amended softly, accepting it. 

"I meant, do you want to go somewhere? Together, I mean. I can ask Cook for more food if you want..." Fitz ducked his head, embarrassed, then looked up with stubborn eyes above rosy cheeks. 

The Fool appeared to consider this for a moment, and then: "Come," he said, setting off away from the room and down the hall. He strode with purpose, each step making him jingle. 

This was good, Fitz thought while he followed docilely. His initial excitement and amazement had faded and left something warm behind in their wake. He knew that he would have to go back to Burrich before he was missed, and he suspected that the Fool was wanted elsewhere too, but it didn't matter.

The Fool went out to the Women's Garden, leading Fitz to a tree that was thin, but looked strong. It had grown quite tall, and the Fool tipped his head all the way back to stare at the top of its branches. "From up there," he said, "I could see the beach." He hadn't felt safe enough to return to Buckkeep Town, but not a day had gone by when he had not thought of it. 

"Up there?" Fitz looked up, tilting his head so that his neck bent almost uncomfortably. "That's a long way up..."

"Not as long as the road to the water," the Fool replied, almost trancelike. He looked back down and watched his friend's expression. "And so, much less daunting." 

Fitz wasn't sure. He was far more comfortable with his feet on the ground, and distances could be crossed that way without fear of falling. He was also a boy, though. "Should we climb it?" he asked, already judging how well he’d be able to pull himself up onto the branches.

The Fool shook his head. "Not if you're afraid." He had just wanted Fitz to know that he had thought about the beach since that day, so he truly had missed him. 

Fitz frowned in thought and studied his friend. He looked back up at the tree. The limbs were thin and the whole thing moved in the wind. "You could have fallen," he pointed out. "If you wanted to go, you should have just come to find me instead." He didn't say it harshly, but he couldn't stop a small amount of hurt from creeping into his voice. He really would have liked to see the Fool.

The Fool shook his head. "I could not," he asserted. "The time wasn't right." In truth, he had had no idea if Fitz had even wanted to see him again, or if he had cared for their time together. 

Fitz huffed. He wasn't sure what the Fool meant by that exactly, but he supposed it was alright. They were together now. He shifted his weight and scuffled the toe of one of his boots on the ground. "It would have been hard to get away from Burrich," he acceded. "Where were you all that time? Will we be able to play again?"

The Fool completely disregarded the question, focusing instead on Fitz's statement. "Burrich," he said with dissatisfaction. "He never laughs." 

"You know him?" Aside from their brief meeting outside of the guardhouse, Fitz didn't think that he'd ever seen the two in each other's company.

"I know everyone in the Keep," said the Fool with far more maturity in his voice than a child his age should have been able to produce. "Burrich upsets me, because he is always angry." 

Fitz felt obliged to defend his caretaker, even if he were inclined to agree with the Fool's assessment. He looked away, frowning at the base of the tree. "I think he's mad because I'm here. He was happy with the soldiers before."

"Why would you make him angry?" the Fool asked with a genuinely confused frown. "You like puppies, and you share your food, and you tell good stories. That should not make anyone angry.

Fitz snorted, but he felt mollified by the Fool's compliment. "Because he's supposed to be being a soldier, and my father was supposed to be the king, but he left because of me, and Burrich had to stay to take care of me. Like the horses and the hawks." He'd lived the story, but he'd heard it too, what must have been a hundred times, whispered on the lips of serving staff and soldiers. "He is always angry, though," Fitz conceded. "Why does that bother you?" 

"I fail around him." The Fool frowned at his feet as he tried to explain it. "My only purpose within the court is to make people laugh. And when Burrich doesn't laugh, no one around him does either. And then, I have no purpose at all." 

Fitz frowned, not sure that he understood. With a child's logic he said: "Burrich doesn't really laugh... But you make lots of other people laugh. You made me laugh plenty of times now." Privately, Fitz thought that the Fool might have to give making Burrich laugh up as an impossibility. Aside from a few dark chuckles over his brandy, Fitz doubted that Burrich was capable of genuine mirth. At least while Fitz himself was present. Burrich had been in a foul mood since Fitz had snuck away to the beach. If he hadn't existed, maybe Burrich would laugh and the Fool wouldn't be angry.

"I did," the Fool considered. "But before that, you were quite dour." He again tapped the tip of Fitz's nose. "So perhaps if I can make you laugh, then I can work up to Burrich." 

Not wanting to crush the Fool's hope, Fitz nodded. "I suppose you could do that," he said, diplomatically and smiled at the poke on his nose. 

"Good." The Fool nodded. After a pause, he added: "Perhaps you could help me. You know Burrich best. Everyone says so." 

Fitz shook his head in an immediate denial, not at the thought of helping the Fool, which he would gladly do, but at the idea of making Burrich laugh. "I don't think I'd be much help..." His denial petered out. He didn't want to disappoint the Fool. "What would you need to know?" He asked. What he knew about Burrich was largely tied in with what he knew of the stables. Burrich always saw to the beasts before he saw to himself, and he demanded the same of his stable hands. He didn't like to waste anything, and he liked to drink. None of that seemed useful for making the man laugh.

"Hmm..." The Fool tapped his chin pensively. Obviously common farces did nothing to move Burrich, nor did imitations or mockery of others in the room did nothing to move him. "Are there any stories he enjoys? Perhaps I could re create those. Or even guardroom style jests? He is a man at arms, after all." 

Fitz had heard quite a few bawdy jests from the sailors around the harbour and in the inns and taverns that he and his town friends had frequented. He tried to imagine Burrich laughing at them. "He's... I don't know. We could try something of everything. It couldn't hurt. Are you sure that you want to keep trying, though? It might not work." 

"My life here depends on my ability to make those of the Keep laugh." The Fool nodded decisively. "I am certain, and I shall never give up. Not in this, nor in any other great quests I might have.

Fitz nodded, accepting the Fool's confidence. If making Burrich laugh was an important thing to the Fool, then he would help. He squared his tiny shoulders, glad to have something that he could do for the other boy. "Do you want me to take you to him? He's probably still at the stables."

"No, not yet," said the Fool. "I need to prepare. Like all good acts, this needs refinement." He had recently been asked to speak the first few introductory lines to a play for Regal's Life Day celebration, so he considered himself well versed in scripted performances. 

"Oh, alright." Fitz sat down at the base of the tree and took a bite from his neglected pastry. He wasn't precisely sure what refinement meant, but he would have felt silly asking. "We could run away," he suggested. "Then you won't need to make Burrich laugh." He'd thought about it several times, but he stayed because it was the only place he belonged.

The Fool turned to look at Fitz slowly. They could run away. Now that the two of them were united, Prophet and Catalyst, there was no reason they couldn't leave. During his time at Clerres, he hadn't been told precisely what to do once he had found his Catalyst, and Fitz was the only person he truly cared about here. He would have to ask King Shrewd, of course, since he had sworn--he had sworn. He sighed as he realized this. "No, Fitz. I am a King's Man." The phrase had been used around him, and he thought it sounded sophisticated.

"A King's Man," Fitz repeated. He'd heard the phrase from Burrich before- he'd been that to Fitz's father. He looked at the Fool with new respect in his gaze, suitably impressed. "That sounds important... I'm not anything really."

"Of course you are!" the Fool protested, sitting down beside Fitz with an 'oomph.' "You're...my friend, are you not? And you are the Keeper of the Puppies." He had wanted to say Catalyst, but he didn't feel as though it would be fair to try to explain something to Fitz that he did not fully understand himself. 

Fitz blinked and then smiled. "Yes. Of course we're friends. The Keeper of the Puppies is better than Nameless the Dog Boy. Burrich won't like it though. He says I've got the Wit magic. He says it's bad, but I don't think so." Nothing that felt that right could be a bad thing. A frown darkened his features as he realized that he probably shouldn't have mentioned it. What if the Fool thought it was bad too?

The Fool gaped at him. "You have magic?" He had not read anything about any wit magic, but he most certainly would now. His Catalyst was even more special than he had thought. He grinned. "By El, that's wonderful!"

Fitz relaxed. The Fool seemed alright with it. That was good. After Burrich's explosive reaction, having that part of him be accepted felt like a balm. He felt an answering grin spread across his face. "It is wonderful. It's the most wonderful thing ever." He tilted his head. "I couldn't feel you with it, though."

"So it's a feeling magic?" The Fool had hoped it was something like calling lightning from the sky summoning aether spirits, but a feeling magic was more subtle, and more akin to his own. That was almost better. "Can you feel anyone else?" 

"It's... sort of a feeling thing, I suppose." He looked around. "I can usually feel people at least a bit, but it's hard to explain. I didn't know that people could exist without that feeling. It's like... It's like..." He struggled for a moment. "It's like you're a reflection in the pond, but when I quest for you, you're not actually there." It had alarmed him momentarily at their first meeting. Like seeing a ghost. It had come to just be another aspect of his friend though, and he didn't mind it. 

The Fool had no idea what that really meant, but he nodded hesitantly anyways. He looked around to make sure no one was listening and dropped his voice. "I have magic too." 

"You do?" Fitz breathed, wide-eyed. 

The Fool smiled wide. Somehow, telling Fitz about his prophetic abilities felt special, but also prompted that distinct sort of excitement one got when doing something they were not supposed to. "I have dreams," he said, "and then they happen." 

Fitz looked impressed. He thought about the sorts of dreams that he had. Dreams of running, smelling, and playing. Dreams of a faceless woman with warm arms and a good smell. "That's amazing," he said. "But what if you have a nightmare?"

"Well...not all of my dreams become real," the Fool amended. "Just the special ones." The ones about Fitz, of course. "I write those ones down, and then they become important later." 

"How can you tell which ones are special?" Fitz was intrigued.

"I just...know." That was not particularly fair, especially since Fitz had tried to explain his wit-quest magic to the Fool. "They feel like they aren't really my dreams," he hedged. "Like someone else has dreamed them before." 

Fitz could understand that. He'd shared dreams with Nosy plenty of times. He smiled, "Well, I'm glad that your nightmares don't come true. It would be frightening to know that they were going to happen." 

The Fool had had prophetic nightmares too, but he did not think there was a need to worry his friend. He simply made a noise of agreement and leaned back against the tree. "Howcome Burrich doesn't like your magic? Is it just because he's angry all the time?" 

Fitz frowned and looked away, pulling his knees up so that he could balance his chin on them. "He says... He says that it makes a man into a beast. Less than a beast, because he kills with a man's passion. He said that people used to hunt down and burn people with the Old Wit..." Fitz trailed off, remembering the terror he'd felt, and his pain when his connection to Nosy had snapped, leaving the world dull, muted, and lonely. "Do you think that people would really kill me for having it?"

"I don't know," the Fool said. "I had never heard of it until now. I don't understand why anyone would want to kill you." No one had tried to kill the Fool for his magic, but then again, no one had believed that he had it either. 

Fitz had his own opinion about that. Regal had made no secret of how he would have solved the problem of Fitz's existence. "I've heard people say that it would have been better for my father if they got rid of me." 

"But..." The Fool had never met Prince Chivalry, but he wanted to think that he would have disagreed with that. "But it would not have been better for you. And it would have been much worse for me." 

"Why would it be worse for you?" Fitz frowned at the Fool curiously. Surely he would have made other friends. Then he shook his head. If the Fool hadn't existed, then Fitz would have been sad. "Never mind. I'm happy that you exist too. You're the first friend I've made in the keep." 

"You're the only one I've made." Ever, not just in the Keep. "That is why it would be worse for me. I would be all alone." He also would have been waiting at Buckkeep forever for a Catalyst that never would have come.

"Well, we both exist, so there's no point in wondering about what would happen if we didn't." Fitz decided, practically. He finished his pastry and dusted his hands off on his trousers. "Will you be in trouble for leaving Regal's party?"

The Fool shook his head. "No. Prince Regal doesn't like me anyways. I was only there because Prince Verity suggested it instead of wasting money on hiring entertainment." 

"I like Verity. He's nice..." Fitz liked his ready smile and his bluff demeanour. Verity always looked a bit bemused when he looked at Fitz, but he was never unkind and he even ruffled his hair a few times. "What does a Fool do?" 

"I'm not sure about others, but this Fool--" He pointed at his own chest-- "does acrobatics, juggling, pantomime..." He frowned as he listed them off, trying to remember everything he did. "...song, poetry, theatre, storytelling, sleight of hand..." 

Fitz raised his eyebrows. "That's a lot... You look like you're younger than me!"

The Fool giggled. "But I am not!" he said joyfully, shaking his head. "No, princeling, I win there."

An incredulous expression took over Fitz’s face. "But you can't be! You're so small!" He blushed, realizing that he might have been rude. "How old are you?" He demanded. 

"How old do you think I am?" The Fool responded mysteriously.

Fitz blinked and his blush darkened. He shook his head, suddenly shy, and looked away. 

"What's the matter?" the Fool touched Fitz's shoulder tentatively. "You don't like guessing games?"

Fitz shook his head again and straightened up, fighting the urge to shy away from the Fool's hand. "It doesn't matter," He decided, then he smiled. "I don't mind however old you are, so I don't need to guess."

The Fool giggled again. "What if I was two hundred?" he teased.

Fitz made a face at the outrageous suggestion. "You're not!" He said, laughing. "You'd be all wrinkled and old looking."

"Well...what if I was an Elderling?" The Fool suggested. "They always look young, in all those paintings and tapestries."

Burrich wasn't one for children's tales, and Fitz looked askance at the Fool. "What's an Elderling?"

"An Elderling is a magical being, like a person but better. They used to talk to dragons and they helped humans." That wasn't entirely accurate, but the Fool just knew what the art portrayed, and pieced the story together from there

Fitz's eyes widened. "Used to. They don't exist any more?" That was a rather sad thought. They sounded nice.

"No one's seen one in a really long time," The Fool said, sounding wiser than he really was. "Some people still believe in them."

"Because it was a long time ago," Fitz filled in.

"Exactly." The Fool nodded. "So no one from then is alive now. Except for me. You know, because I'm an Elderling." He wondered if he would actually be able to convince Fitz that he was. That would be funny.

Fitz bit his lip and regarded the Fool speculatively. It was true that the Fool looked different from other people. Fitz had never seen another person like him. "Did you know dragons, then?" He asked, hesitantly.

"Only one," said the Fool, after a hesitation that was a little too long. "She was blue." He had had a dream about a blue dragon once, so it was the first thing that had popped into his head.

Fitz's eyes widened, and he was properly convinced. "What are dragons like?" 

"They're so big that if they block out the sun sometimes, when they fly past it,” The Fool improvised, “And...they like presents. Peopl-- _ we _ always had to give them presents." That was all the dream had to offer, and he hoped his friend didn't ask him any more.

Fitz grinned in delight. He would have loved to meet a dragon. He wondered if he would be able to touch minds with one. He barely sensed birds at all, but birds were different, even if they could fly. "You said that they disappeared. You said that Elderlings disappeared too, but you're an Elderling. Do you think that there are more dragons somewhere?" 

"Maybe. I still dream about them." Neither of those statements were lies, and the Fool thought it would be amazing to meet a dragon.

"I hope that I dream of dragons too," Fitz said. He could almost imagine them flying across the sky. Almost, he could imagine what it would be like to be a dragon. To be able to fly wherever he wanted without concern for walls.

The Fool stood and offered Fitz his hand to help him up. "Maybe you will, now that you're thinking about them. Dreams are strange that way."

Fitz took the Fool's hand and rose. When their hands touched, Fitz could have sworn that there was something between them. It was not the Wit, it couldn't have been. This was a new thing that ran between them like a thread, connecting them almost into one being. Fitz blinked, and then disregarded it. "I hope you get to meet one again. You must miss them."

"Er...yes." The Fool nodded. Somehow, this wasn't as fun as he had imagined it would be. He felt guilty for lying, but he didn't want Fitz to be angry at him if he came clean. "I ought to attend the King," he excused himself lamely, and did not even say farewell before he fled.

Fitz's eyes widened in surprise, and then he frowned. His shoulders sank as he watched the Fool dash away. Once again he hadn't been able to ask if they'd see one another again. He sighed. It was about time that he got back to Burrich anyway.

Burrich was, as always, in the stables. This time, he was caring for the horses of several lords who had been invited by Regal and who had decided to go for a short ride to see the wonders of the Buck countryside. He was grumbling about horses being ridden too hard as he wiped them down, and he resolved to pay special attention to these two to ensure they weren't driven into the ground.

Fitz crept into the stables with admirable stealth for a six year old. He caught a knowing look from one of the stablehands who thankfully did nothing to acknowledge his presence other than throwing him a conspiratorial wink. The stables were alive with the sounds of the animals, and even their smell was comforting to Fitz. He looked left and right, and eventually spotted Burrich by the horses. He bit his lip and cast about for something that he could pretend to have been busy with, but the stables were as neat and orderly as ever. There was no help for it. Fitz trudged over to Burrich and looked up at him, hopeful that he wouldn't have noticed his absence, but ready for a cuff on the ear. He scrubbed his mouth on his sleeve in case there were any crumbs from his pastry. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, wondering if he should announce his presence or wait to be noticed. The horses Burrich was grooming were beautiful, with long noble legs and muscles that rippled beneath glossy coats. "Do you want me to help, sir?" he ventured.

"Might have wanted you to help earlier today, when there were things to be done," Burrich grunted, though he did not seem at all surprised that Fitz had run off. He was less angry than usual, probably because he had found all of the puppies exactly where they needed to be, and not trailing after his wayward stable boy.

Fitz breathed a sigh of relief. Burrich was in a rare good mood. He took up one of the brushes anyway, and dragged a stool over. He clambered up onto it so that he could reach. He liked to take care of the horses. He would have liked to quest out to this one and get to know her better, but he didn't dare risk it under Burrich's watchful eye. He was quiet for a time, letting the task soothe him. He hoped he hadn't upset the Fool. He glanced at Burrich. "Sir? Why don't you ever laugh?" he asked. He put his gaze back toward the horse, avoiding Burrich's gaze.

Burrich stopped his actions and glared at the boy, hard. "What kind of a question is that?" he demanded. It had come from absolutely nowhere, and Fitz had never commented on his jaded demeanour before.

Fitz hunched his shoulders and did another two-handed stroke with the brush, dislodging some of the dust from the road. "It's just a question. Sir." Fitz answered in a quiet voice. 

Burrich just grunted and resumed his task also. "I suppose it's because I don't find anything particularly funny," he admitted begrudgingly after a moment.

While he processed Burrich's answer, Fitz continued to brush rhythmically. He had half expected to receive smack on the head in lieu of an answer. He decided to press a bit further. "You're sad a lot. Is there anything that would make you happy?"

"Maybe if you stopped asking me stupid questions," Burrich snapped. "That would make me very happy right now, Fitz." In truth, the stablemaster was deeply uncomfortable and more than a little wounded by Fitz's questioning. Being reminded of his outlook on the world had awakened old pains, and he suspected he would find the bottom of more than one bottle tonight.

The rebuke stung, even if wasn't unexpected or unusual. Fitz scowled to hide his hurt, unconsciously mirroring his guardian's expression. "Yes, sir," he mumbled. He continued brushing in silence after that. It truly was his fault that Burrich was angry. Angry Burrich made the Fool angry. Fitz's shoulders slumped. He wished that they'd run away. When he had finished brushing as far as he could reach from his perch on the stool, Fitz jumped down and pushed it over. The horse was obligingly patient, and he wished again that he could touch minds with her. He could feel her at the edge of his awareness, docile but a bit nervous at the dark moods of the two humans. Fitz climbed up onto the stool again and petted her mane, soothingly. She didn't deserve to be upset. He fantasized briefly about riding her out of the stables and away, far from the keep. It was impossible, though, and besides--the Fool couldn't go with him. Maybe one day. Maybe they would ride a dragon instead of a horse.

 

_     “I have always been a very private person. Most Whites are, at least at an early age, as we are taught to hide our gifts from those who might wish us harm. Not every place is as accepting of the gift of foresight as the region in which I was fortunate enough to have been born. I, however, never outgrew the need for privacy: if anything, it became stronger the further I progressed in life. I also knew the importance of the words that would shape the future of not just two souls, but hopefully of the rest of Time. It is certainly for this reason that I could not bring myself to speak to my Catalyst in anyone else’s company, at least the first time. _

_     “Childishly, once my words began they did not stop, and I fear that in this first crucial exchange I revealed too much of myself to him. If I had been older, as I was supposed to have been, perhaps I would have had the wisdom to reveal only as much as was necessary to maintain the friendship. And though I avoided saying the words ‘Prophet’ or ‘Catalyst’ to him, he still knew of my importance long before he should have. If he had been less oblivious, perhaps he would have been able to infer his own.  _

_     “When I finally revealed to him the role he must play, he did not take me at my word. In fact, it took a very long time for him to come to accept his place in Time. I can only blame myself for this: if I had waited to tell him of any of my abilities, perhaps I could have better explained what was expected of both of us.” _

_ … _

_     “Fitz, from antiquity, means ‘Son’ or ‘Son of.’ I did not come to know this until my adult years, but I found it grimly fitting. My Catalyst has always measured himself by his value to others, be he their son, brother, lover, friend, or enemy. So too does Fate measure him, by what he can achieve. I prefer to think of him as the Son of His Own Destiny, or the Son of Love. But mostly, the name has taken on a separate meaning. He is just Fitz, to me. And that is all I could ever ask for.”  _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	3. On Commencement and Companionship - Bastion

_ While I have had many revelations about the nature of my magic and others, it is unfortunately the case that society has been far slower in accepting the natural variation among human beings. There are those who despise the Wit, and fear it. Burrich was one such person. I regret now to think on all of the years he spent despising that part of himself, and all of the years I spent half-despising him for his prejudice. Though I could not bring myself to abandon my magic as he’d hoped, a small amount of his fear crept into me. Burrich believed that my Wit would turn me into something less than man or beast, if I gave myself to it; something savage and evil. There have been times in my life where I’ve wondered if there wasn’t a small grain of truth in that. In battle, I am told that I become like a man possessed. Even the Skill cannot reach me when the heat of a battle takes me. Is that a natural trait of mine, or is it a result of the magic I was born with? In the end, I doubt that it matters.  _

_     Such prejudices about my magic have not always been so commonplace. Was a time, I am told, that Witted folk were respected for their skills with animals, and would be called upon to do stable work, lead hunts, or shepherd flocks. It seems that always there have been those who would use another’s magic for their own ends. A Skill coterie is a tool for the ruling monarch to use for the smooth running of his or her kingdom. A hedge-witch will sell her services to others in the form of charms or potions. These are benign things. At times, though, whether through malice, greed, or ambition, a person may abuse another’s magic unforgivably... _

 

    Fitz's visits to the keep were usually limited to the kitchens, the men-at-arms room, and the Great Hall. Seldom did he go alone. It had been a year since Nosy, though, and Burrich's guard over him had relaxed somewhat. Fitz had grown in that time, and eventually Burrich had been forced to send him to Mistress Hasty for new clothes. No son of Prince Chivalry's could be seen running around like a beggar child, after all. Fitz didn't really care much what he wore, but his shirts had gotten too tight and his trousers too short, so he agreed. He was trotting back outside after having had his measurements taken when a flurry of motion caught his eye. At first it appeared to be a game of tag, but then it resolved itself into the opposite. A group of children appeared to be searching for someone. "There he is!" one shouted triumphantly. Fitz thought he recognized him as one of the kitchen boys. There were five other children in his company, and they all ran as one, like a pack of wolves. When the first stone flew, Fitz realized that it was probably not a game.

    The Fool barely ducked the stone that flew over his head. His hat was gone, as were his shoes, as he tried to cut down some of the noise he made while running. He had hoped it would make it harder for the group to follow him, but now the cobblestones just hurt his feet and slowed him down. Several other rocks had hit him before, and the places on his arms and back still throbbed with what he knew would become bruises later on. He headed towards the gardens in the hope that there would be people there to stop the mob chasing him, and that he could find a suitable tree to climb. He considered his beach-viewing tree: he was still lighter than the other children and the branches probably would not hold them.

    Fitz hesitated, but then a flash of white and colour decided him. His eyes widened in disbelief and then outrage. He tailed the other children. They ran, laughing and calling out insults.  

   "Freak!" a girl shouted, chucking a stone and giggling.

    "Get him, he's fast! We can't let him get away!" Another boy cried. His throws were stronger. 

    "Catch him! Catch him!" They encouraged each other. One of the bigger boys was faster than the rest, with long legs and a sure stride. He lunged and made a grab for the Fool's arm.

    The Fool half turned and jerked his arm away, but the movement caused him to tangle up his feet and fall over backwards. He turned his fall into a backwards somersault, but he had not looked at where it might take him and ended up bumping up against a tree. Before he could shake his head and get back to his feet, the children had surrounded him, looking down at him maliciously. At this point, the Fool did the only thing he could think of--indeed the only thing he had ever done in situations like this: he cowered. Tucking his head down between his knees, he folded his arms over it to try to protect as much of himself as possible. The taunts of the children turned to one solid wave of sound, and the hot tears trailing down his cheeks hurt more than the blows being rained upon him.

    The children took a savage joy in their pursuit. They may not have considered that the Fool was just another child at that point. Human beings are animals, and it is an animal instinct to attack someone who is just too different from the rest. Their laughter and taunts were almost wild as they kicked, threw dirt, and tore, their prey captured. It is also instinct to protect one's pack. Fitz's shorter legs caught him up with the children, but far later than he would have liked. Luckily for him, they were too occupied with their ugly task to notice him. With a shriek that was almost a snarl, Fitz leapt into the fray. He was not a coordinated fighter, nor an experienced one, but he had rage on his side. He scratched, punched, and bit without hesitation.

    It took a moment for the Fool to notice that the assault had been stopped, and he peeked up hesitantly. His arms fell away from his head in surprise as he beheld Fitz throwing himself at the children. The ones he attacked directly fought back, but the other ones looked afraid. One of them murmured, "He's like a mad dog..." They seemed to have forgotten the Fool completely, and one of them actually tripped over him. Most of the children dispersed, not wanting to be subjected to Fitz's savage attack, but three remained. Two of them were engaged with the boy directly and the third was trying to find an opening. As he passed, the Fool stuck his foot out and he stumbled over it. The Fool was on his feet in an instant and he gave his former assailant a swift kick. The child yelled in pain and surprise, and then got up and started yelling for his friends to come away, seeing that they too were receiving more than they could handle in the fray.

    Fitz did not feel his enemies' blows, or think anything beyond  _ fight, blood, Fool _ . His unrestrained violence seemed to be enough after a time to convince even the larger, more stubborn foes to withdraw, because suddenly there were no more bodies to fight. Fitz panted. When the world finally came back around him, he tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth and felt the heaving of his own chest. He looked around them for the other children, but found them to be gone. His eyes snapped to the Fool. "Are you alright?" He stepped closer, eyebrows drawn up in concern. He was filthy and disheveled, with blood that was only half his on his lips. Now that the immediate danger was gone, he was far more human, though. His eyes drifted over the Fool's injuries.

    The intensity in Fitz's gaze, the sharp cadence of his words, the charged energy of the fight, and the smell of sweat and blood on his friend made the Fool take an involuntary step back. His mind was still half rooted in flight, and Fitz did seem almost as animalistic as the children had suggested. As soon as the Fool met his eyes, however, he recognized the boy he knew. "Yes," he said in a small voice.

    Fitz frowned and withdrew a bit when he saw the Fool step away from him. Still, he didn't take his eyes off of his friend. "No you're not. You're hurt," he argued. He reached forward to touch a bloody scrape on the Fool's cheek.

    The Fool's first instinct was to pull away from the contact, but he wasn't fast enough. As soon as Fitz touched him, that spark between them flared up again, and the Fool flung his arms around his friend in a desperate hug. Now that the threat was gone, the shock burst in his mind and he was drawing deep gasping breaths as he tried to regulate his sobs

    Fitz was taken aback for a moment. Hugs did not happen to him. He only froze for a moment. This was the Fool, and he was hurt and afraid and crying. It didn't matter that he could not sense the Fool's mind with his Wit. He could feel the other boy's emotions as clearly as if they were his own, and they shook him. The Fool was supposed to be light and sunshine and musical laughter. He was not ever supposed to be this. It was wrong. Fitz put his arms around the Fool and held him carefully, mumbling soothing words like Burrich did when an animal was injured. The Fool felt very small and fragile in his arms, like a baby bird fallen from its nest. Every one of the Fool's sobs tore at him because there was nothing he could do to erase what had been done to him.

    Composing his emotions quickly had come from practice in two regards: if one's bullies saw that they hurt their prey, they were bound to continue; a royal jester could never be seen by courtiers to be anything but joyful. The Fool made use of that practice. He lifted his head and stepped back, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. "Thank you," he mumbled to his feet, dragging his bare toes through the grass.

 Fitz watched the Fool with a worried crease in his brow. He stepped closer again and began a careful inventory of the Fool's wounds. His blood was shockingly red against the cloud-white skin. Fitz wiped it away carefully. Who knew how many bruises he had beneath his motley? Fitz had once seen a dog who had been kicked and beaten. The poor thing had been bloodied, pained, and terrified as it struggled to breathe. Fitz ran his hands lightly down the Fool's ribs, keeping an eye on his face to see if he flinched.

    The Fool did more than flinch. He jumped back, swatting Fitz's hands away. There was something strange about the boy's fingers coming into contact with somewhere that was not his arm. Even the touch to his cheek had produced that same feeling, and yet he could not place why. This was Fitz, his Catalyst. No contact between them should have repelled him so, and yet it did. "I have had worse," he said, in lieu of an apology.

    "Did I hurt you? Can you breathe?" Fitz drew back, pulling his hands away as if burnt. He was too worried for his friend to be hurt by his reaction. It took a good deal of effort to stop himself from continuing his examination. The dog had died in the end, and Fitz had felt its pain up until the end.

    The Fool shook his head. "If I could not breathe, I would not be talking," he pointed out with a grin that resembled his court personage, if somewhat strained. "You are the only one who did not hurt me." The words seemed to have a deeper meaning to them, but it was obscure.

    "Well, it would have been awful if I had," Fitz said, oblivious to any subtext. "Come with me?" He held out a hand, extended but not touching: offering, not demanding. "There are bandages and things at the stables. Burrich keeps lots. He's busy today, so no-one will even notice us."

    The Fool crept forward and tentatively laid his fingers in Fitz's palm. There: no strange feeling of withdrawal. He wondered if he had imagined it. "One of them was another stableboy," he mumbled.

    Fitz frowned, trying to recall a familiar face. They were all a blur. He curled his fingers around the Fool's and held his hand comfortably, glad that he didn't pull away. "We'll go in the back way and up to the loft. None of the stableboys go up there. You'll be safe. Even if he's there, I won't let him touch you." Fitz's expression turned a bit feral at the last, and he bared his bloodstained teeth. How dared they attack his friend?

    As Fitz led the way, the Fool nodded, falling into step beside him. The warmth from his friend’s hand seeped into his own, and he marvelled at how nice it felt not to constantly be plagued by cold. He smiled inwardly to himself and watched their feet as they walked. Inadvertently, their strides matched perfectly, the beat of soles against the earth complementing the rhythm of his heart--and Fitz's, which he felt through the pulse at the boy's wrist.

    They reached the stables more slowly than they might have normally. Fitz kept their pace slow to account for the Fool's injuries, and he also took the time to sneak them in through the back. He'd had years of practice sneaking in and out of the stables. He didn't let go of the Fool's hand the entire time.

    The Fool had scarcely gone past the front doors of the stables, so seeing the stairs and the upper level surprised him. He was not sure what he had expected: straw or thatch roof or even animals sleeping among the stablemaster's chambers. But it was nothing of the sort, just a comfortable loft room. He realized immediately that its owner was not home. "Will he notice if you take something?"

Fitz shrugged. Burrich was meticulous, and he kept a careful inventory of everything under his roof. "It's okay. He won't know it was me." He gave the Fool the mischievous smile that he'd learned from the other boy. Fitz went over to his pile of blankets and stooped to arrange them into some sort of order. They looked much the same as they had before when he was done, but he nodded in satisfaction. "You can sit here. I'll get the things."

    The Fool dropped himself into a cross-legged position on the blankets, following Fitz's movements with his pale eyes. "But you said the stableboys don't come up here," he remarked. "And if Burrich himself didn't do it, he  _ will _ know it was you."

    “He's drunk enough. He might think it was him," Fitz huffed as he rummaged in the chest and looked over what he thought they'd need. It was the first time he realized how useful some of the things he had learned could be. He took out two stoppered pots of unguent and an excessive amount of bandaging, and then carried them over to the Fool. He deposited them on the ground, and then fetched the pitcher of water from the wash stand and a soft, clean rag. When he'd assembled his things, he knelt down in front of the Fool and wet the rag.

    The Fool blinked slowly at Fitz. He hoped he would address only the wounds on his face and arms, because if he could not stand to be touched anywhere else, he could not imagine baring his skin. He sat quite still and let Fitz do his work.

    "I was scared when I saw them go after you," Fitz confided. He dabbed gently at the scrape on the Fool's cheek, and then wiped away some blood from his brow. "You said you'd had worse. Did they do this before?" 

    The Fool dropped his gaze then, which made it hard for Fitz to work on his face. "Not them..." he conceded. Not these children, though all mobs of children tended to look and feel the same when they were after the same things and the same person. A fight. Blood. The Fool.

    Fitz rinsed the rag while the Fool spoke, and then took his hand to clean away some of the blood from a scrape there while his head was bowed. He was not always the most perceptive, but he was able to read between the lines this time. His grip tightened on the rag and he used the force to wash it out again. "I hate that they hurt you."

    "I can do nothing to change it," the Fool sighed. "There are too many of them, and the bruises fade quickly." He had found that lamenting his fate did not make it hurt any less, so it was best to get over it quickly.

    Fitz frowned. He couldn't always be at the Fool's side to protect him. "If you get hurt, you can come to me. I'll help patch you up. Burrich taught me a lot about medicine." When the Fool's visible wounds were cleaned, Fitz unstoppered one of the pots. "This one is good for bruises," he said, and cleaned his hands off before taking a bit on one finger. He smoothed the soft stuff onto the Fool's jaw.

    The Fool screwed his eyes shut. There was that feeling again, somehow rooted in his bones, that he was not supposed to be touched. He willed himself to endure through it, because this was Fitz. He meant him no ill will of any kind. Realizing that he had clenched his fists, he now relaxed them, and determined from that point forth that he would not let touches of his dearest friend affect him so.

    "Sorry," Fitz apologized softly, misinterpreting the Fool's reaction. "I'll try to be more gentle..." With great care, he treated the remainder of the Fool's bruises, and bandaged his cuts. "Take off your shirt? I should do the rest."

    The Fool quickly shook his head, instinctively crossing his arms over his chest. "You have done a good deal already...thank you." He blinked up at Fitz, his colourless gaze meeting the other boy's dark one and holding it.

    Fitz looked about to argue for a moment, but then let the matter drop. "Very well then, Fool." He stoppered the pot again and pressed it into the Fool's hands. The air between them smelled strongly of healing herbs and Fitz smiled a little as he realized that the Fool was not quite so scentless now. "Take this at least, and do it yourself. Don't forget."

    It was hard to forget when laying any which way to try to sleep rubbed up against one bruise or another. He simply bobbed his head once in response though, then rising to his feet.

    Fitz hovered anxiously, holding out an arm for assistance and then refusing to stray far from the Fool's side. Thoughts of the injured dog were still fresh in his mind. "Are you sure you'll be alright?"

    "Yes," the Fool replied. "I am quite certain. Thank you again." He considered giving Fitz another hug, but settled instead for resting a hand on his upper arm in a surprisingly affectionate fashion.

    Fitz smiled and then took his hand gingerly, aware of the boy's injuries. It looked for a moment as though he were removing his hand from his arm, but then he held onto it carefully. "Come on, then. We'll sneak out and no-one will ever know you were here. I know the best way. Just don't step on the middle of the third stair. It squeaks."

    The Fool nodded, locking that fact away far deeper than it needed to be. Twenty-five years hence, he would still remember that the middle of the third stair to the stablemaster's chamber squeaked. "I hope you won't get in trouble," the Fool said quietly as they descended, having a foreboding feeling that his friend would anyways.

    "It'll be fine. I'll clean up, and he won't even notice," Fitz said with more confidence than he felt. It was true that Burrich could spend his evening in town and return too drunk to notice if the horses learned to speak Duchytongue, but he might not. Even if he did, he'd notice eventually. Or that stablehand would say something. Fitz didn't much care. He'd do it again a thousand times. Once they'd successfully crept their way down the staircase, Fitz moved ahead to cast a look around. He nodded and then pulled the Fool toward the exit.

    The Fool stopped Fitz in the doorway with the slightest of touches to his chest. "I will carry on alone from here," he said. "You ought not to leave again, or someone might say something." He smiled, gave a little wave, and bounced off, the light of the setting sun setting his white hair ablaze.

    Fitz sighed and watched as the Fool departed. He still worried, but the Fool had seemed well enough despite everything. He frowned a bit as he remembered the way the Fool had cried in his arms. He must have been frightened.

 

King Shrewd heaved a great sigh into the confines of his solar. He was seated at his desk, sifting through the piles of tablets and scrolls. There had been reports lately of raids by the OutIslanders. The damned savages had always plagued their shores, but they were persistent this year. A good winter and an increase in the coastal guard would set them right. Of course, it would be another expense. There was the offer of increased trade with Jamaillia to consider, but the notion made him scoff. The Six Duchies were the Six Duchies. The soft foreigners had very little that they could possibly offer, and the risk was greater than the reward. No, he preferred to keep his borders well protected, no matter what his younger sons said. He felt a pang of grief as he thought of Chivalry's attempts to negotiate with the Mountain folk. It had gone well. His eldest son had shown so much promise...alas. Shrewd shook his head. Verity was a soldier at heart, but he would learn. Regal, well. He had hope for the boy. His mother was a terrible influence, but he had only himself to blame for her. Speaking of expenses, she had been spending gold like water on those disgusting herbs of hers, imported from who knew where. He had told her time and again that he would have none of it, but she responded with a look of contempt that he'd never dreamed he would see on his wife's face when they were first wed. Now it was commonplace. How foolish he'd been to think of marrying for love.

    The Fool had run all the way to King Shrewd's chambers, lest he run afoul of any other children--or Regal, for that matter. He came to a halt outside of the closed doors, however, and remembered his place. He attempted to smooth down his hair as best as he could without the use of a looking glass or his hat, and caught his breath before asking the guard for entry. When he was admitted to the King's chambers, he walked with a respectable stride and came to stand straight in the doorway of his master's solar. "King Shrewd, sir?" he queried. "I attend."

    Shrewd set down his quill and looked up at the interruption. His Fool was one of the few welcome distractions he had had of late. From the start, his brother had scoffed at the idea of a prophet, citing it as no more than fancy and a disease of the mind. Shrewd knew better. The strange child that had asked to join his court had a gift, and he would have been a fool himself to let such a chance slip by him. Over time he had even come to hold some affection for the creature--like a pet, rather than simply a tool. Shrewd narrowed his eyes as he took in the bruises and bandages. He held out a hand. "To me, Fool."

    Though he was painfully unaware of just how alike his relationship with the King was to Verity and his hunting hound, the Fool obeyed. He trotted over, but respectfully did not meet the King's eyes, instead staring strategically at a point just to the side and behind his head. It was a technique it had taken him quite a while to master, but it was what he thought was expected of him.

    Shrewd nodded and reached forward, tilting the Fool's head with a light grip on his chin. "It seems that you found yourself in a bit of trouble. Explain." Trouble concerning his things, his people, always concerned him. He released the Fool and waited for his explanation, sharp eyes reading what he could from the Fool's appearance.

    "A mere quarrel, my lord," the Fool responded dutifully. "I found myself pursued by some of the Keep children, and I did not run fast enough." Since he had sustained no serious injuries, and the King now knew what had happened, he doubted the matter would be further probed. He certainly did not expect any defense on the King's part.

    "They should know better," Shrewd remarked. "But children seldom do, do they, my Fool? Are you badly damaged?" Kindly, or at least well-meaningly, he gave the Fool a pat on the head, smoothing some of his flyaway hair.

    "No, my lord." Usually, he would have left it at that, but after a time he spoke up again. "Fitz helped me. I would have been badly damaged if not for him." One hand flew to his mouth as he realized he had told the King Fitz's name, which very few people knew. He felt he had to apologize to his friend immediately.

    Shrewd hummed in thought, taking his time to mull over the information. "You are under my protection. You know that, but I may have to remind my people of that. I won't have them harming you. Who is this Fitz who helped you?" A bastard was a bastard, and there were probably dozens of them among the staff.

The Fool could not very well lie to King Shrewd. "Um. Prince Chivalry's son, sir." He refused to call Fitz 'the Bastard.' The way he had heard others hurl the word at his friend had caused his immediate aversion to it.

    Shrewd's bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. There was a topic he had not thought about in more than the abstract in quite some time. The boy had long been an idea to him, a potential tool for future use, but too young to be thought of as a real person just yet. Time had a tendency to pass more quickly with age, Shrewd was finding. "FitzChivalry, then... Interesting that you would make his acquaintance. What do you think of the boy?" Shrewd probed.

    The Fool smiled, forgetting some of his etiquette. "I think he is wonderful!" he declared. "He makes friends with all the puppies and he accepted a gift from me and sometimes he brings me food in return. And once, we went to the--" He stopped short. For some reason, he did not want to the King to know that Fitz had taken him down to the beach. He had a queer feeling that that would not be well received. "--the gardens, for lunch."

    Shrewd was surprised at the show of enthusiasm, but carefully controlled his reaction. The pause in the normally quick-tongued Fool's description was telling, but he let the slip go. He nodded seriously. "Thank you, Fool. I admit that I haven't given the boy much thought. Perhaps I've been remiss. Tell me, Fool, are you well enough to remember forward for me just now?" There was a command beneath the words, but one tempered by affection. He wouldn't push the boy if he refused. It was evident how much the seeing taxed him.

    "You know it does not always come when I call, my lord," the Fool replied with a self-conscious attitude. "But I will do my best. What is it that you wish to know?"

    "I want to know about the boy. Can you tell me if he will be a threat to my sons?" Sentiment had prevented Shrewd from taking the harsher action, but it was wise to never be too cautious.

    The Fool closed his eyes, his hands working loosely at his sides. He bit his lip in concentration, but all that came to his mind was the task of the Catalyst, not the actions of the small bastard boy. "He...will be the one responsible for securing an heir to the throne." He opened his eyes again. "Though how, I cannot tell." It either meant that he would help one of the Princes, or that neither of them would have children and Fitz would be the closest thing to an heir left. He communicated this to Shrewd, but the effort made his head spin.

     Shrewd took in the information with a stoic expression and a calculating gaze. There were many ways to interpret that information, and not all of them good. "Tell me more, if you can." He eyed the way he Fool swayed on his feet, but judged the information to be important enough. "Sit," he ordered, not unkindly.

As always, the Fool sat on the ground, which was his preferred place. His head felt heavy, so he dropped it into his hands. At length, words rose from him, but they ran together; exhaustion was apparent in his voice. "Grandchildren," he said. "You will never meet a single royal grandchild." Again, this could mean that Shrewd died before any of his sons produced heirs, or simply that no legitimate grandchild would be born to him.

    Shrewd heaved another long sigh, this time in frustration. The words the Fool gave him were as valuable as jewels, but as elusive as fish. Only with more information could he know with certainty what he should do. That certainty was the real prize. The weapon that he could wield to keep his family and the Six Duchies strong. Yes, the Fool's coming to his court had been a fortuitous thing. "I'll be more specific with you," Shrewd offered. "What would happen if I were to have the boy killed?"

    "Don't do that!" The Fool jerked his head up. This did not come from any prophesying he was doing at that moment. Even if Fitz had not been the Catalyst--which even Shrewd did not know of--then he still would have been the Fool's only friend. His heart felt as though someone had stepped on it even at the thought of the man he served killing his friend.

    Shrewd held up a soothing hand and then smoothed the Fool's hair again. He took the words for prophecy, and nodded. The boy would live then, but he would need to ensure that he wouldn't pose a threat. He would need to have his loyalty. "Peace, Fool," Shrewd said soothingly. "It's not in my nature to entertain the murder of children. I have no heart for such a task. I only wanted to make sure of my decision."

    The Fool breathed a sigh of relief, nodding. "Thank you, my lord." Truly, he sounded as if it was his own life that had been spared. In a way, it was. He blinked the panicked tears out of his eyes before they could fall and averted his gaze from the royal one once more.

    King Shrewd petted the Fool again, taking in his exhaustion and upset. He was truly a loyal creature, and Shrewd was grateful. "Go and take your rest. I'll summon you if I have need of you, but I'm sure that I'll manage the rest of the evening." He smiled indulgently and wondered what his brother would think of the information he'd learned.

    The Fool nodded. It took him three tries to stand, but once he was up he walked steadily enough. Belatedly, he remembered to bow to his King and then left the chambers, watching his feet shuffle along the floor as he took the long trek up to his tower. Usually, he had a very complex ritual before going to sleep, but the fight and his injuries, plus the amount of prophecy he had just been instructed to read, had exhausted him. He simply curled up atop his covers, and was asleep within seconds.

 

Burrich had been called down to Buckkeep Town to inspect some new stock that had come in from Tilth Duchy. Having approved the animals, he ordered them brought up to the stables in the morning and he headed back up the hill himself. The rabble coming from the inn did not beckon him as it did some nights: in fact, he found it rather irritating and was glad to be away from it. He was also pleasantly surprised to see Fitz in his proper place when he got through the door to him chambers...until he saw the blood marking the boy's face. A sense of dread tugged at him, and he closed the door harder than he intended.

    Fitz froze at the sound of the door and the feeling of Burrich against his Wit sense. He gave Burrich a wide-eyed look. There was no stench of alcohol or smoke on him, that would have indicated a visit to one of the taverns, and Fitz did not know whether to be glad for that or not. Burrich smelled of animals and salt, and that should have put him in a better mood. He gauged the man's expression carefully, trying to get a feeling for what he should expect. He swallowed. "Sir...?"

    "Oh, Fitz..." Burrich spoke with the most profound tone of disappointment he had ever mustered. He sat on the edge of the bed, shaking his head sadly. The boy seemed to be oblivious to his appearance, and naturally Burrich's mind raced to the worst possible conclusion: had he performed actions he was just as unaware of. "What did you do, boy?" he asked in a tone that clearly signified he was dreading the answer.

    "I..." Fitz trailed off. The disappointment was new--different from the usual thunderous anger. He didn't know what to make of Burrich's slumped shoulders or defeated tone. His mind conjured images of the dog whip, and he found that he couldn't relax. "Nothing," he lied, defensive. He averted his eyes.

    Burrich was angry now. He surged to his feet with all the energy he had lacked sitting down. He crossed the room in two strides, looming over Fitz. "Don't lie to me, boy!" he thundered. "Do you think me blind? Take a look in the glass, and see how you appear." He was frightened. All he had ever done was try to keep Fitz away from this, and to have it corrupt him so young tore at Burrich's heart.

    Fitz startled back at Burrich's sudden anger and flinched away, expecting a fist to follow. When all that came were words, Fitz stared up at him defiantly for a moment before crossing to the wash stand. He moved slowly, keeping Burrich always somewhere in his field of vision. Fitz took up the looking glass and peered into it, and then looked back at Burrich. The evidence of his brawl was plainly writ in the blood and hinted at more subtly in his dishevelled state and forming bruises. Fitz put the looking glass down and looked at his hands. He'd cleaned them, but his nails were chipped and his knuckles were scraped. "Oh," Fitz said. He wiped his lips on his sleeve. The blood had begun to dry and so he was unsuccessful at removing all of it. "I got into a fight." Fitz hunched his shoulders and frowned. "It isn't a big deal. You get into fights too."

    "I don't come out of fights looking like a satiated wolf," Burrich countered. He grabbed Fitz roughly by the arm and forced him to sit on the bed, then finding something with which he could properly clean the boy up. "Tell me what happened. All of it."

    Fitz's eyes drifted to the medicine chest, but he said nothing about the missing things. He kicked his feet. "There were about five of them," Fitz said. "They were... I got angry." Between his hazy recollection of the actual fight and his omission of the Fool, there wasn't much to tell. "We fought a bit, and then they ran off."

    Burrich snorted in disdain as he--not gently--wiped the blood from his boy's face with a wet cloth. "Five children don't attack a Prince's son for no reason. Try again. What happened?" His patience was running thin, but he was more concerned about the possibility of Fitz having gone feral than the people he had fought with. Boys his age were supposed to get into fights.

    Fitz tried again, his mind racing to concoct a suitable story. "I'm sorry I lied. I snuck off to town, and no-one knows who I am there. I wanted to see my friends. A gang of them were hurting one of my friends, and I wanted to stop them, so I did." He only hoped that no rumours would have started to contradict his tale. He'd been lucky that the missing supplies had gone unnoticed. There were too many loose ends to his lie, but he couldn't take it back now. He gave Burrich his most contrite expression.

    Burrich did not look pleased about Fitz's admission of having gone to town, but nor was his rebuke as harsh as it might have been as he said: "Trying to play the hero, are you?" He sighed. "I reckon your father would have done the same. And the blood? Is it all yours then?" 

    "No," Fitz answered. "It's not mine."

    Burrich's frown returned tenfold. "Fitz...do you know what it is I'm worried about?" The fear that had been abated a little rose up and threatened to choke him once more.

    Fitz's focus shifted from keeping Burrich away from the medicine chest to trying to figure out what had brought out his frown. "Er..." He shifted awkwardly on the bed. "You don't like me to go to town because I was stealing." He did not mention Nosy.

    It was at times like this that sometimes Burrich thought the boy simple. He growled in frustration. "Not town this time, boy. The fight. The blood. Recall what I told you of the Wit. You know you appear as though you ravaged a man like a beast."

    Fitz blinked and then frowned. He licked his lips and remembered the way the blood had filled his mouth. He didn't have many memories beyond the desperate fighting, clawing, and hitting. Was that what Burrich had been referring to? The taste of the blood had been sweet, and he hadn't minded it then. Now fear made a cold lump of his belly and put a vice-grip on his chest. His breathing quickened. Was he worse than an animal? He stared at Burrich and then scrambled away from him, putting himself out of arms' reach. If Burrich meant to quarter and burn him, Fitz wasn't going to let him do it easily.

    Burrich sank back down onto the bed. "You do know what I'm talking about," he remarked. "I had hoped you didn't. Men don't fight like animals, boy. People might be willing to let it go, at the age you are, but I know better. And when you get older, others will start to notice as well." He stared at his young charge for a moment. "I don't know what else to do," he said aloud, half to himself.

    "Are you going to burn me?" Fitz asked in a small voice. The door was closed. He doubted that he could open it and escape without being caught. Flight was impossible, but Burrich didn't seem angry. He was something else. Some tiredness that Fitz had no word for.

    "No, I'm not going to burn you," Burrich sighed. "You weren't with any animals, were you? The pups were all here, and I don't recall seeing you run around with anything else at your heels." He dragged his hands down his face. Perhaps it truly had been a young boy's fighting technique, but Burrich knew all too well what lurked beneath the surface, even in something so mundane.

    Fitz shook his head. "No, no animals." He began to feel relieved, but the knot in his stomach wouldn't go. Now that he paused to think about it, it really had been another child's blood. He did not regret it. He would do it again without a question to save the Fool. But, still. His expression twisted and then he sprang from the bed to be sick into the wash basin. The dog whip. Nosy. The children screaming.

    Burrich nodded. "Good," he muttered to himself. If the boy was disgusted at what he'd done, what he'd consumed, all the better. It would make it easier for Burrich to keep him away from the Wit and all it's threats. When Fitz was done, Burrich handed him a waterskin and supported him lest he fall. "Here. Drink and then sleep, boy."

    Fitz eyed Burrich warily at the rare show of gentleness, but accepted the waterskin and drank. "I was just protecting my friend," he reminded Burrich and himself quietly.

    "I know." Burrich's voice was still gruff, but it always had that credence to it. He bade Fitz take another drink and then he put the waterskin away. Effortlessly, he picked the boy up and set him on the bed once more. "Sleep here," he instructed, although he made it sound like an order which belied the act of kindness.

    Fitz gave Burrich another suspicious look, but pulled the covers up and burrowed into them. There was a dent in the straw mattress that curved where Burrich usually slept, and Fitz nestled himself into it. He breathed deeply. The bed smelled like straw, Burrich, and just faintly of animal scents. He shut his eyes. "Good night, Burrich," he whispered. He was glad the other man hadn't been angry enough to hurt him. He'd even seemed almost understanding, and that made Fitz feel a wave of guilt for lying to him about the Fool and for not mentioning the stolen supplies. He thought briefly about telling him, but fear made him stop. He didn't want to ruin their tentative understanding. So he kept his silence and eventually he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

 

_     “I am fortunate that I came to be valued by King Shrewd for my gifts and not for the skills for which I was ostensibly in his company. If I had only a little less strategic value, I might have endangered my Catalyst with my poorly-hidden declarations of love for him. I would speak of Fitz to anyone who would listen--granted, at the time, it was not many. I have not been able entirely to break myself of this habit, but I have regulated myself to speaking in generalities and avoiding names.” _

_ … _

_     “Having my Catalyst endanger himself on my behalf is neither a new nor foreign concept, as he has a habit of putting others before him. It gives me pause each time, however: the Prophet has always outlived the Catalyst, and each time he rushes unthinking into a fray, my heart is in my mouth wondering if that will be the last. _

_     “I accepted what happened with those Keep children without so much as a blink of the eye. What they were subjected to was objectively wrong, even if they had been the malevolent ones in the situation. Despite the animalistic nature of Fitz’s attack, however, I immediately interpreted it as Right, simply because it was him who had done it. It took me a long time to realize that any Catalyst could be just as flawed as the people around him--even mine, whom I loved so deeply even at that time.” _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	4. On Commencement and Companionship - Laughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By request of one vcat, I have located the singular instance of 'okay' and changed it to 'alright' to better suit their cultured palate. Enjoy!  
> ~ Adamant

_I have long passed the age that Burrich was when I was suddenly thrust into his care. Having experienced loss, injury, and grief myself, I find that I have mostly forgiven Burrich for his treatment of me when I was a child. To be suddenly stripped of respect, position, friend, and health must have been difficult for him. To be faced with the cause of that loss every day must have been harder still. He did what he thought was best for me, I believe, and he took his duty to my father very seriously. If he was sometimes swallowed by his own grief, then I cannot fault him, though I hated him at times as a child. There have been many times in my life where I have failed to do what I should have done because of the black moods that sometimes come over me. He was not perfect, but neither am I, and neither is any man, so I believe. In the end, I find that I cannot begrudge him any of the small bits of happiness he was able to find in life._

 

_I do not claim to be all-forgiving. The boy in me still sometimes thinks on Burrich’s neglect and harsh ways with resentment. As a man, though, I feel that I can understand him a bit better. It was not all bad, either. Burrich had high expectations, but he believed that I could achieve them. He taught me to be good with animals, even without the use of my Wit. He was also open and blunt with me, unfailingly, and so I knew that I could trust him to be honest. He was unhappy for most of my childhood with him, but there were rare occasions when he would laugh and I would see glimpses of the man he had once been._

  


Every day, the Fool made a little more progress towards town. He was nervous about leaving the Keep at all, and he was not quite sure he would remember the path Fitz had led him on to get to the beach in the first place. It took him four days to even step out of the gate. He would go just after midday and stare down the road, and taking the step out on his own was nerve-wracking. He did not go back for another three days, and this time he went down the road until he found the opening for the side path. He looked at it and went back home. The next day, he forged through the trees a little ways, but the clothes he was wearing had so many accoutrements on them that he did not think he should go any farther for fear of wrecking them. A week later, he finally managed to do the whole trip and blinked up at the sun when he emerged onto the sand.

The beach was just as nice as he remembered, and the Fool walked barefoot along the water's edge for a bit. He was intrigued by the glittering rocks that were washed up by the tide, and he picked up as many as he could fit in his pockets. Eventually, however, they started to get heavy and he put them back on the beach. In discarding them, however, he noticed something he had not before. When he turned one of the rocks over, there was a shape pressed into it. It was curved, and tapered to a point. When he moved the stone around, the sunlight seemed to glint off of the fossil and reflect back in a myriad of colours. He smiled and kept that stone, but he decided to head home after that. The beach was just not the same without Fitz. Returning to the Keep proved easier, because he had just done the journey there, and he was excited to go find his friend. He checked the stables first and was rewarded for his cleverness by the sight of the young boy going about his tasks.

Fitz had gradually earned himself more tasks from Burrich. The number of tasks seemed to correlate with the length of his metaphorical leash. He'd been back under close supervision after the incident with the keep children, but that had gradually relaxed with time and Fitz made sure to give Burrich no cause to doubt him. He paid no special attention to any single animal, and he did not quest out to them even when it would have made his work easier. It was not born out of some understanding for Burrich's hated of the Wit, but rather out of necessity. As a child, he was still very much dependent on his guardian's good will-- as rare and as conditional as it was. It didn't feel comfortable, necessarily, but the prospect of rejection was more terrifying. The longer Fitz refrained from using his Wit, the more relaxed his watch became. That morning, Fitz had been shepherded to breakfast and then put to work mucking out some stalls. After cleaning up and a hasty lunch, he was given a surprise. He would be allowed to groom the horses. Unsupervised. Fitz accepted the task hastily and without question, before Burrich could change his mind. And so the afternoon found Fitz perched on a stool, brushing down an even-tempered palfrey. She was a lovely creature, and Fitz longed to greet her properly. He didn't, but he did praise her aloud with human words and he took his time brushing her where he thought she liked it best.

The Fool entered the stables cautiously, wary of ill-tempered stableboys that might take exception to his presence. He had not forgotten the lad who’d cast stones at him, and the Fool was not eager to cross his path again. Seeing no enemies, the Fool relaxed his vigilance. Fitz appeared very taken with his task, and did not seem to be paying much attention to anyone else. As such, the Fool approached the horse (Fitz was on the other side) and jumped so that his head became visible above her back. Once he landed and did not get immediate acknowledgement, he jumped again and again, bouncing up and down out of view. He even gave Fitz a wave during one jump, but he had to be careful because he did not accidentally want to hit the horse and startle her.

"Fool!" Fitz gasped and nearly fell off his stool when he noticed the Fool's face appearing on the other side of the horse's withers. He steadied himself and then grinned at the sight of his friend. It was rare to see the Fool in the stables. He petted the horse and then climbed down. "You're lucky she's so calm! If you startled her, she might have knocked you against the stall or something," Fitz scolded, sounding a bit like Burrich. He was smiling though, and didn't seem cross. He frowned after a moment. "You're not hurt, are you?"

The Fool stepped around the horse and shook his head. "Of course I'm not hurt! Come down, FitzChivalry." That is what King Shrewd had called him, and the Fool thought it fit rather well. "I have something for you."

Fitz furrowed his brow a bit at the change of address, but refrained from commenting. He nodded in relief at hearing that the Fool was unhurt. He came over to join the Fool and put his brush down. "What is it?"

The Fool wiggled his eyebrows and pulled the fossil from his pocket. He took Fitz's hand and pressed the rock into it. "Dragon's claw," he told him, one corner of his mouth quirking up into a smile.

The rock fit nicely into Fitz’s palm and he could feel the small ridges in its surface. Carefully, he picked it up between his fingers and turned it so that he could examine  it from all angles. He moved closer to the light of the doorway. "That's incredible,” Fitz breathed. “ Where did you find it?" Having examined it to his satisfaction, he offered it back to the Fool, who shook his head and pushed the fossil back toward him.

"It is yours. I saw it and thought of you. And..." The Fool looked at his feet briefly. "I found it on the beach, just right on the sand where the waves retreated back into the sea." He smiled.

Fitz's mouth made a little ‘o’ of astonishment. "You made it to the beach? I know you were afraid. That's wonderful!" Privately, he was relieved that the Fool wouldn't need to climb that treacherous looking tree again. He grinned, happy for his friend, and then looked down at the fossil again. "This is really for me?" He felt a rush of gratitude. It was the purest present he'd ever received - not given out of some obligation or pity, but freely and gladly. Fitz was touched. He admired it again and then pocketed it, resolving to keep it safe. He wished that he could do something for the Fool as well. He'd been very brave to venture out of the keep. Especially knowing how strange he looked to other people. If the Fool could have more adventures that were good, perhaps he'd like it. Struck by an idea, Fitz looked at the palfrey. She was a steady, placid old girl. "Fool, would you like to go with me for a ride? Burrich's been teaching me, and I could show you too." Burrich had indeed begun teaching Fitz how to ride, but slowly. He'd sat the boy up in the saddle and led the horse by the reins, letting Fitz get used to the posture. He'd kept a suspicious eye out for Fitz using the Wit too, Fitz thought. This was the first time he'd been trusted alone with a horse. It was a perfect chance.

"Me?" the Fool asked nervously, looking up at the horse. She seemed ridiculously tall, and though the Fool had excellent balance, that was all of his own accord. Trusting an animal to keep him safely atop her back was a very frightening prospect indeed. "I am not sure I have the same affinity to animals that you do. My skills lie in other areas."

Fitz smiled encouragingly. "It'll be alright. You can sit in front of me, if you want. Or behind if you just want to hold on. Burrich doesn't approve of people riding double, but we're both small. I think put together we don't even make one of him, so it's fine. I'll make sure you don't fall off."

The Fool craned his neck up to look at the saddle. "I need help getting up," he said. "May I borrow that stool?" He was still terrified, but this was something Fitz wanted him to do. He would do anything Fitz wanted him to do.

Fitz thought about it. He'd never ridden double before either. "There's a mounting block outside," he said. "It should be tall enough. I'll mount first, and then you can hold onto me. Alright?"

"What if I held onto the horse?" the Fool suggested. "No offense, but if I am to stay on the horse, I ought to hold onto her. If I hold onto you, and you fall off, then so will I." He trusted Fitz, he did. But he did not trust the horse to keep Fitz on her back.

Fitz looked up at the horse, and then checked her tack to be sure that everything was secure. "Alright," he said. "Would you be alright with holding onto the saddle? I don't know if she'd like you holding onto her neck, and you might get scared if she tosses her head."

"Yes," said the Fool. "I can do that." He looked between Fitz and the horse and then slowly reached up to put his hand on her nose. He wanted her to like him, at least a little before he tried to ride her. "How long will we be on her?"

"As long as you want to be," Fitz answered, and then corrected himself. "Well, not too long. Not past sun down, anyway... Are you alright with it? I was really happy that you made it to the beach, and I wanted to show you how to ride so that you could have another adventure. Only if it makes you happy, though." His expression was earnest, and he worried his lip.

"It does!" the Fool insisted. Any time spent with his friend made him happy, and he would do well to get over his fear. "I will go get that...block, then." He looked around towards where Fitz had pointed and set off that way, keeping Fitz holding the horse.

"Wait!" Fitz called, and then took hold of the reins to lead the horse after him. "It'll be easier to mount out there!" He laughed a little, and coaxed her to a stop by the block and petted her cheek. He was happy to hear that the Fool was pleased by his suggestion. "You've been alive for more than two hundred years, and you haven't ridden a horse?" He was a bit surprised, but not mocking or mean-spirited. He'd come to share Burrich's opinion that every man ought to know how to ride a horse.

"Two hundred years?" the Fool asked, surprised. He then remembered that he had successfully convinced Fitz that he was an Elderling. "I think you mean two thousand years," he recovered. "And we rode dragons." He nodded, thinking that he sounded very convincing and forgetting that he had been intending to come clean to Fitz.

Fitz was impressed. He tried to imagine riding a dragon, and smiled at the thought. "That must have been amazing. No wonder you weren't scared to climb up high in the beach-tree. Do you want go mount first or second?"

"You should go first," said the Fool, "so I can see how you do it. Except if I am going to sit in the front, perhaps I should go first?" He frowned in confusion. "You are the one who knows horses."

"I'll go first, then. You can still get on in front of me." Fitz smiled a little awkwardly and petted the horse again. He wondered what her name was. He was tempted to ask her, but Burrich seemed to have an uncanny ability to tell when he was using his magic, even from a distance, so Fitz refrained. He adjusted the stirrups so that they wouldn't be too long and then nodded in satisfaction. He clambered up onto the block and got one foot into the stirrup, then swung himself up into the saddle. He shifted a bit to make room and then grinned down at the Fool, switching feet so that the Fool could use the free stirrup to climb up.

Taking a deep breath, the Fool hopped onto the mounting block and climbed up the same way he had just seen Fitz do...nearly. He balanced with both feet in the stirrup and wrapped his arms around the horse's neck to pull himself up. Settling down in front of Fitz, he gripped the saddlehorn with fear-inspired strength. "Alright. Go on."

Fitz grinned and leaned forward to take hold of the reins. It was an adventure for him too, since he'd never steered on his own before. Perhaps it was best not to say so, though. "Good job," he praised, then blew to get a piece of the Fool's hair out of his mouth. "Alright. Will you lean forward a little? I will too. She's paying attention to how we're sitting, so if we lean forward a little and touch her sides with our legs, she'll start walking."

The Fool turned around to look at the boy sitting behind him. "A-alright. If you say so." He leaned forward a little, though he only kept one hand on the saddlehorn while the other gripped the horse's mane. He didn't hold onto her neck because Fitz had told him not to, but he was sure she wouldn't mind the mane. He wasn't tugging it, after all.

Fitz squeezed the horse's sides gently and leaned forward. She started going left, much to Fitz's surprise, and they ended up doing a half circle before he realized that he'd been holding the reins crookedly. He guided her in the rest of the circle as though he'd meant to do it the whole time, and then straightened her out. At the edge of his Wit sense he could feel her amusement at him and he blushed a bit. Initial confusion aside, this was nice! The Fool's hair kept tickling his nose, but that was alright. It was still odd to him that the boy had no scent, and he was uncomfortably aware of the fact that he probably smelled mostly like stable and manure. Aside from the one time they'd hugged, this was the closest he'd ever been to the Fool.

The Fool started to relax his grip, since the slow gait at which the horse was progressing did not seem dangerous at all. He sighed in relief and readjusted his position so he was more comfortable. He ended up leaning back a little, and was comforted by Fitz's warmth behind him.

Fitz began to relax as well and breathed a sigh of relief. "If I have to, I can talk to her, you know?" Fitz said. "Because of my magic. So don't worry, alright?"

"Oh yes, your magic." He frowned. "But I thought you said that your magic was a feeling magic. For people. Because you could not feel me. Does that mean that you can feel animals too? I suppose that would explain why Burrich told you about being a beast."

Fitz began to guide the horse, cautiously, in the direction of the exercise yard. It was going better than he'd thought it would. He frowned a little at the mention of Burrich's comment. "Well, yes," he said. Fitz hesitated to continue, but the Fool was relaxed and wasn't against the Wit like Burrich was, so he continued. "But I can feel anything that's alive. Some more than others. I can feel some old trees better than I can the birds on its branches. It's not just feeling though. I... I had a dog once. Nosy. We could think with each other, not just alone. I can try to do that to talk to the horse if we have to. Only if we have to, though. Burrich doesn't like it."

"What happened to the dog?" The Fool asked in concern. "Was he sold to one of the other Duchies? I don't think it's fair that Burrich would sell a dog that was your friend." He shook his head, which set his hair to tickle across Fitz's face. He watched his friend's hands on the reins and his natural child's curiosity set him itching to try himself. He set his hands on top of Fitz's tentatively, hoping he didn't mind.

Fitz didn't mind at all. He took a breath to reply, but got a nose full of the Fool's airy, dandelion hair. He sneezed, violently, and in doing so he jerked, accidentally snapping the reins and putting his heels to the horse. Obedient as ever, she took off.

The sudden action sent the Fool flying back into his friend with violent force. His hands slipped off of Fitz's and he grabbed the reins to try to keep from falling off. "Fitz!" he cried as the horse dashed at full speed. Spying a fence coming up, she turned around, panicked, back towards the stables.

Burrich emerged from the stables just in time to be nearly blown off his feet by a horse's reckless charge. He almost did not notice that there were people on her, so fast was she going, but he see a splash of colour in the corner of his eye, and there was only one person in the Keep who dressed like that. Why then, was the King's Fool trying to steal one of the horses?

Fitz lost the reins and flailed, trying to keep his seat. _Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!_ Fitz quested out, alarmed, but the words bounced right off. If anything, his alarm only spooked the horse further. The Fool crashed into his chest, and the horse wheeled around, and suddenly he was out of the saddle. He met the ground with force that knocked the wind from him and he coughed and wheezed, even as he pulled himself up. _"Wait!"_ he tried again, with wit and words, as soon as he could draw breath.

The weight off the back of her flank alerted the horse to the fact that the rider had been trying to speak with her. She came to a rapid halt. The Fool, meanwhile, had turned when Fitz fell off, crying out in dismay. The horse's halt took him by surprise and he slammed forward. He would have fallen off, but he wrapped his arms around her neck and ended up spinning around. Still expecting impact, he screwed his eyes shut, but soon opened them again when he realized he had not hit anything. He was dangling from the horse, his head under her chin and his feet on her saddle, much like the apes he had read about during his time at Clerres. Still stiff with fear, he held on for dear life.

Burrich watched the calamity unfold with an incredulous expression. He marked the boy--who he realized was Fitz--fall off the horse, but he was well enough to sit up and cry out, so most likely nothing was broken. He took quick steps out of the stable and approached the horse.

Fitz struggled to his feet. The impact had shocked him, but he didn't have time to dwell on that. As he realized that nothing was broken, except perhaps his pride, he ran after Fool and horse. He felt relief as he saw her stop, but his heart leapt into his throat as he saw the Fool lose his seat. He was peripherally aware of Burrich, but he hardly entered his awareness. Puffing, he almost made it, but then he felt his boot catch on a rut in the ground and he ended up sprawled inelegantly next to the horse. _Idiots..._ he felt her think, tail flicking. Cheeks aflame, Fitz couldn't fault her for the assessment. He looked up at the Fool, relieved at least to see him alright.

Burrich had reached the horse and put a hand on her neck to make her aware of his presence and to ensure that she remained calm. He looked between the two boys critically: the one who was holding onto the mare for dear life and the one who had just fallen near his feet. His eyebrows raised, and then they somehow kept raising. He spoke softly, shaking his head. "Look at you two..." he admonished them. "Look at you two!" he said louder, patting the mare affectionately. "You're lucky she wasn't a feisty one, or you both would have been worse for wear." He chuckled. "Clever girl," he congratulated the horse. "You knew who you were dealing with, look at them!" Fitz had never ridden his own horse, and from the way he was positioned Burrich imagined the Fool had never even been near one. He laughed, shaking his head again. "You have any idea how you look, boys?" He did not answer his own statement, as another laugh burst out of him. "El's balls, we always knew the horse was the real master."

The Fool turned to look at Burrich. He was going to protest the stablemaster's mockery, but then the surly man started to laugh. Carefully, he unhooked his legs from the saddled and dropped from the horse's neck, staring up at Burrich with open-mouthed shock. "Fitz..." he whispered.

Fitz pushed himself up into a sitting position and gaped, looking from the Fool to Burrich and back. "We did it," he whispered in reply, and then he laughed, because it was ridiculous and amazing, and everything was alright. The horse snorted her agreement with Burrich and gave her head a proud toss, and Fitz couldn't even find the ire to be cross with her for the betrayal. He grinned at the Fool widely. They'd done it. Impulsively, he pulled the Fool into a hug. Just as quickly, he released him, his awkwardness catching up with him.

The Fool laughed as well, not even minding the hug. He turned again to face Burrich, just watching the man try to regulate his laughter as he leaned heavily on the horse. "I can't believe this," he remarked to Fitz, almost tempted to step up to the stablemaster and poke him to make sure he was real.

Burrich straightened up, wiping tears from his eyes. "By Eda, that was the best thing I've ever seen." He meant it. All his long years at the stables, he had never seen anyone make such asses of themselves as the boys had just done. He clapped Fitz's shoulder and even dropped the other hand on the Fool's.

Fitz grinned. He didn't think he'd ever directed that particular expression at Burrich before. It was a unique experience. He shared a glance with the Fool and then realized that he might actually have done something wrong. "Er," he stammered, his grin turning shamefaced. "Sorry. It was my idea to ride her. I should have asked you."

"Yes, you should have, boy. You definitely should have." Burrich nodded. "Serves me right for leaving you with them alone. Should have expected this." He turned away from the two of them and took the horse's bridle. "You know you're still going to have to finish grooming her." He still didn't seem angry, though.

Fitz blinked and then grinned again. "Yes, sir!" He agreed, readily. He looked back at the Fool. "You're alright?"

"I'm alright," the Fool asserted. He was still watching Burrich, but he slowly turned to Fitz. "We made him laugh! I knew you could help me!" Both of his palms landed on Fitz's chest. "That's it! I've made every person in the Keep laugh!"

Fitz laughed. "That's a lot of people. You must be good at your job, Fool." He smiled to see his friend so excited.

"Fitz!" Burrich's voice floated out of the stable. "Fitz, get in here and tend to this mare!" He had walked the horse to her stall and given her a few more congratulatory pats. He went around to check on the rest of the animals, having no doubt that Fitz would obey his order.

"I can come with you," the Fool volunteered. "As long as I don't have to get too close to the horse." He licked his lips. "And, I'd really rather not go riding again any time soon."

Fitz glanced toward the stables and then ducked his head. "Sorry, it was my fault she got spooked. I was hoping you'd enjoy yourself."

"Well, I enjoyed being up there with you..." the Fool corrected himself. He still felt the other boy's body heat tingling on his back, even though they had long been separated. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling too much about it

Fitz was mollified, but only slightly. "Still, I hope I haven't scared you off horses. Um. I should probably go before Burrich actually gets angry. You can come if you want to, but I'll be unsaddling and grooming the horse we were riding. She's probably still laughing at us, too..."

"I didn't know horses could laugh!" the Fool exclaimed in delight, following after Fitz. "What else can laugh? Do puppies laugh too?" Once they got into the stables, the Fool looked up at the horse (from a safe distance away). "I'm sorry we tried to ride you," he said.

Fitz huffed, but gave the question some thought. "I'm not sure about everything, but I'm sure lots of animals can laugh in their own ways." He eyed the Fool. "Are you going to try to make them all laugh now too?" He looked up at the horse appraisingly, then looked left and right for Burrich. Deciding to risk it, since Burrich hadn't noticed anything earlier, he relayed the message and then snorted. "She's not angry... She says we can ride her again some time, but I think she might be thinking of how to play a joke on us. Want to help brush her?"

The Fool gasped. "I didn't even think of making all the animals laugh, that's a good idea." He appeared to consider the horse. "I don't want to do it wrong," he answered, but he did step forward to accept a brush. "I guess it's like brushing a cat, right?" He had made friends with a few of the strays around the Keep, and they let him brush them if he stroked with the fur and not against it.

Fitz smiled at the Fool’s enthusiasm and busied himself with the horse’s tack. “I don’t know much about cats, but I doubt that you could do it wrongly. I’ll let you know if she has any particular opinion on it, though.”

“I think you’re fortunate to be able to know what she’s thinking,” the Fool said sincerely. “It seems quite a rare magic you have, but useful. I wish it was a little more common; I’d like to be able to talk to animals. Then I would know what the birds outside my window were singing about.” The Fool found that if he stayed very still, the birds would let him sit by them in the mornings, but he could hope for no more than that.

"You could talk to dragons, though," Fitz pointed out. "And ride them, if we ever found any." He patted the horse again, then pulled the bridle over her face and let her drop the bit. He hopped off his stool. "And I'll help you with the other animals."

"Dragons can talk to anyone," said the Fool. "They're very smart." In his dream, the dragon had addressed the whole crowd gathered beneath her.

"Oh, even people without-" He looked around, then spoke more quietly. "Without the wit?"

"Well, I don't have the Wit, and I understood my dragon. Well, not my dragon, but the dragon I knew." He shrugged. "And I don't think I could have the Wit without knowing it, especially since I can't talk to horses or puppies like you can."

Fitz nodded. It made sense. “I suppose that you must be right. It might be a good thing that you don’t have it, though, if what Burrich says is true. You can just ask me, and I’ll help you understand them.”

“You understand when they complain about people too, then? That must be a lot.” He had heard many men complain about their horses, as if the poor beasts weren’t working hard to carry their often over adorned persons. “If you got...saddled...with Regal--” He chuckled at his own pun as he addressed the horse-- “Does that mean you would throw him off, if you were laughing at him too?”

Fitz laughed. "You'll give her ideas! I'd love to see that. He doesn't even dress for riding. He looks he's dressed for a ball whenever he goes out." Fitz smiled to himself at the thought while he put the stirrups up and undid the girth.

The Fool immediately looked abashed. He was not supposed to speak ill of the Princes; King Shrewd had made that very clear. "I'm sorry. Don't throw Prince Regal anywhere. And Fitz, you can tell all the dogs not to bite him, too. I've told them to before, and I didn't think they could understand me."

Fitz blinked. "You don't have to be sorry. Have you ever seen the way he treats his horses and hunting hounds? I think they'd like to do it all on their own, whether you said so or not."

"Have they told you that? I suppose you would know, since you can think with dogs." He remembered what Fitz had said right before their accident. "Or was it only the one dog?"

"Nosy was special," Fitz said, sliding the saddle off and putting it over the wall. "But... It's sort of like with people, I suppose. I could think with the others if I wanted to, but he and I were closer. It didn't take any effort at all."

The Fool was silent for a moment. "You keep talking about him like he's gone. Did he run away? If you two were friends, like us, then he shouldn't have done that..."

Fitz's expression darkened. He busied himself with the saddle blanket. "No, he didn't run away. He wouldn't have done that."

"Well...what happened to him?" the Fool asked, more gently. He sensed that this was something Fitz didn't like to talk about, and he would not be upset if the boy didn't answer

"Burrich." Fitz answered. "He killed him. I didn't see, but I felt it, I think. So, he's gone now." Thinking of Nosy was difficult, still. Time had lessened the most acute hurt, but it was still a sore spot and it ached terribly.

The Fool dropped the brush as he felt Fitz's despair go through him like a spear. His expression hardened. "He didn't deserve to laugh," he said in a tone that was blunt, unyielding, and frankly frightening from one such as himself.

Fitz stared at the Fool. His mouth worked, but he had no words. He ducked his head. He would have thought so at first, too. Sometimes he still felt a rising of bitterness toward the man who'd raised him, but at other times it was difficult to reconcile the cruelty with the man who sometimes ruffled his hair or spoke to him kindly. And it had hurt to know that Burrich was so angry and sad because of him. It was conflicting. To have someone echo his own fury on his behalf was a strange feeling, in a good way. He felt tears spring to his eyes, but he blinked them away and took a breath before looking up. The Fool was on his side. It felt good, but he was sorry to have put that expression on the Fool's face. "I'm glad he laughed, Fool." Fitz frowned. "It's your purpose, remember? To make people laugh. He needed it, I think."

The Fool shook his head slowly, the expression of anger only giving away to one of sympathy when he came around the horse to approach Fitz. "I wouldn't have wanted to make him laugh if I had known he had killed your friend," he protested. "That's the worst thing I can think of doing to anybody." He knew for his part that if someone killed _his_ best friend, he wouldn't want them to laugh ever again. "If he's laughing, it means he's not thinking about what he did. He should always be thinking about it, and it should be making him sad." He wouldn't wish harm on him--the Fool did not really like to see anyone harmed--but if the guilt stayed with him, all the better

"Thank you," Fitz said, awkward in the face of such directness and such passion from his usually lighthearted friend. "But... Burrich is sad enough, I think. It won't bring Nosy back. And it was my fault, anyway. Burrich cares about animals more than anything. He wouldn't have done that unless he really had to."

That made the Fool’s brows draw together in confusion. Burrich loved animals more than anything, but he had had to kill a puppy because he was only Fitz's friend. He was only able to be friends with the puppy because he had magic, which Burrich thought was bad. But the Fool had only ever seen good things come from Fitz's magic, so what was so bad about it that anyone it was used on had to die? He bit his lip and wordlessly went back around the horse to pick up the brush. After a few strokes, he asked: "Do you think he's jealous? Maybe he wanted to be magical, and he only killed the puppy so you couldn't be." It did not sound much in keeping with Burrich's character, but neither did killing a dog

A shrug was the only response Fitz could make. "I don't think he'd want the wit if he thinks it's bad. I made him mad, really mad. He said he'd rather waste a hound than a man."

The Fool did not understand Burrich at all, so he decided to drop the issue. "I'm sorry your friend is gone," he said sincerely. "I hope I can be as good to you as he was."

Fitz smiled. "I'm glad we're friends. Thanks for being angry for Nosy. You're the only person I told about him."

That touched the Fool more than Fitz could ever know. He smiled despite himself, and was a little saddened that he couldn't tell Fitz more about himself. But he certainly did not want to frighten the other boy, and he did not understand himself as fully as most people knew what they were about. "You're welcome," he said in a small voice, then shifting his focus back to the horse. He would work until he was told that they were done.

Fitz joined the Fool with the brushing, and worked a few moments in silence. Surrounded by the warm, earthy smell of the stables and the sounds of all of the animals, Fitz felt at home. Next to the Fool, he felt happy. He glanced at the other boy and wondered if he should have held his tongue. With a small smile playing about his lips, he edged closer and then nudged the Fool with his elbow. "It was funny, though. I don't blame him for laughing. You looked ridiculous clinging to her like that. You could start a whole new style of riding."

That roused a small giggle from the Fool. "At least I can stay on the horse," he teased back. "You looked more ridiculous falling off her rump." He had really been concerned when Fitz had fallen, but as he was alright it was acceptable to jest about it.

Fitz grinned, happy to have cheered the Fool. "I guess you did do better than me. When you're ready to, let's go riding again."

The Fool smirked. "We shall bring a rope. That way we can tie you onto the saddle." And himself too. He had no wish to be dislodged like that again.

Fitz snorted. "Very well, and a better hat for you. Your hair is always flying everywhere."

"I think my hat is quite fine, thank you," said the Fool with mock offense. "Although, if you know of a better one, by all means lead the way to it." He gestured out of the stable door.

Fitz smiled. Their grooming was done, and Burrich was nowhere in sight to give him another chore to do. Fitz considered himself free for the day. "I don't know about hats, but I'll race you to the tree!" He grinned and then took off at a run. The Fool wasn't a replacement for Nosy. What they had was different. But it was still nice to run with someone.

 

_“I have always believed laughter to have curative powers. I made a good jester for this reason, but such entertainment is about more than a few facial expressions or the ability to turn a cartwheel. What is most important is reading the people in one’s company to determine what it is that they will find funniest. My natural gift as a Prophet also awarded me a measure of being able to determine this with little to no effort. I have never claimed to perfect at any craft, however, and Fitz’s advice on the matter of the Buckkeep stablemaster was of immeasurable value. After all, I took my duties as royal fool to be a sort of practice for my larger, grander responsibilities in life, and it was only natural that my Catalyst should help me with this._

_“Of course, the required empathy would not be complete without the physical skills necessary to complete the various feats a court performer is expected to do. Those of the White blood are both blessed and cursed with extended youth, and I had plenty of time as a child to perfect the arts that would later be my livelihood.”_

_…_

_“‘Fool’ is even less of a name than ‘Fitz’ is, but my Catalyst made it his own just as I did for him. It is what he calls me to this day when he elects not to address me by my true name, and during my childhood I was especially grateful for the personal cadence he had given the name. I did not have to fumble for an identity to assume on the rare occasions on which I was addressed. In Fitz’s company, I became more than simply a royal fool; I was The Fool, and I could only hope to be dear enough to him to remain His Fool.”_

_\--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet_


	5. On Commencement and Companionship - Comfort

_ Change, no matter if is for the best or not, can be a difficult thing. When a pup is given to a new owner, it is suddenly separated from all of the smells, routines, and familiar things that it is used to. To ease its transition, Burrich would often send a pup to its new home with an old shirt or blanket that smelled of the stables.  _

_     Humans find change difficult too. More times than I can count, my life has been uprooted and I’ve been forced to learn again, exactly what my place is in the world. The first time was when my mother gave me up and I was left in Burrich’s care at Moonseye. The second was years later, when King Shrewd saw fit to acknowledge me as his bastard grandson and see me educated in the way he saw fit. I had no familiar comfort that first occasion, but on the second I was fortunate enough to have a friend. In fact, the Fool has been there for most of the subsequent turning points of my life. Whether he precipitates those changes, or is simply there, winding his way in and out of my life, the effect is the same. I am grateful. I have not expressed it as much as I should, I think. How can I possibly convey what it means to have the constance of his friendship when all of the world seems to be changing around me? I find that I appreciate this more and more as the years go by. My memory of that first night in the keep has stayed with me, though, as vividly as though it were yesterday. _

 

Fitz was cleaner than he had ever been in his recollection. His hair was neater as well, trimmed and tied. With the outward changes on top of all of the others, he hardly felt like himself. The day had been such a hurricane of change, that he scarcely knew up from down. Standing alone in his new chamber, with none of the smells of the stables that he had grown accustomed to, he felt very alone. He ached from weapons practice, and was mildly unnerved by the strange creature on the single tapestry that was hung to soften the bare stone walls of the room. At a loss for what to do with himself, Fitz lit the wall sconces and wandered the room. Then he sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed. It was a real bed, and a feather one at that. Fitz thought longingly of his pile of old blankets. He yearned for some bit of familiarity in the new world he had found himself thrust into. He had never loved Burrich, had even hated him on some days, but he found himself wishing that Burrich had refused to let him go. Had fought to keep him. But his mother had not, and his father had not, and so of course Burrich would not either. And now he was here. He had half disbelieved that King Shrewd would follow through on his word, would even remember having met the dirty bastard hiding beneath the table of the Great Hall with the hounds and the scraps of food. Even now, it did not feel real. He sighed into the emptiness, missing the sounds of the animals and wondering if Burrich were mending tack in the firelight.

    The Fool had waited for nearly an hour to be able to speak to Shrewd. This did not often happen to him, but apparently there was someone in higher confidence to the King than the Fool himself was. By listening at the door (which the guard inside the antechamber was too preoccupied with sharpening his dagger to notice), the Fool heard the King speaking with another man. He did not think he had ever heard the voice before, but it had the same cadence as Shrewd's. He was about to dismiss the conversation as unimportant when he heard the Bastard mentioned. With a momentary panic concerning Shrewd's suggestion years before about killing Fitz, the Fool leaned a little closer. All that he managed to find out, however, was that the second man was supposed to meet Fitz today and teach him something. Simply another tutor then, the Fool decided, and stopped listening. When he was finally allowed to see the King, he asked who the mysterious man was and was told he was 'only a shadow.' He was to learn later that it was only Chade, whom the Fool had met before, but whose importance Shrewd was not ready for him to know. The Fool brought Fitz up too, and was told that he was finally being recognized as a Prince's son. This pleased him, and he wanted to go see his friend. 

    On his way back to his chambers, the Fool overheard talk between two serving ladies who had laid out fresh reeds in a long unused room. He surmised that this must be Fitz's room and resolved to visit him, but he decided to take a bath first. This was not a simple visit, after all, but a royal welcome into the Keep. Within the hour he was on his way to Fitz's room and was not quite sure why he felt nervous knocking at the door, one hand behind his back.

    Fitz was startled out of his thoughts by a tentative rap on the door. He honestly had no idea who to expect. He had also never been in a position to either grant or deny another person entry into a room before. He had been a guest in Burrich's chambers, and before that, a guest in Nosy's stall. Where he had been before that was, of course, unknown to him. So, after a moment of confused hesitation, Fitz rose and pulled open the door. "Um. Yes?" he asked, and then blinked at the familiar pale face.

    The Fool smiled, but his carefully prepared greeting and welcome died on his tongue as he took in how different his friend looked. "You're dressed like a Prince!" he exclaimed, hastily adding: "Because you are. That's a good thing." He shifted anxiously from foot to foot. "I mean, I came to welcome you to Buckkeep." Finding his stride again, he cut a deep bow, during which he pulled his hidden hand out from behind his back to present Fitz with a bouquet of flowers. They were all completely mismatched, but they had come from his own chambers

    It was so like and yet unlike the Fool that Fitz was unsure whether to laugh or cry. So much was different, he did not need the Fool bowing to him too. Bad enough that Burrich had gone down on one knee. The mismatched flowers were so completely characteristic of his friend, that Fitz forgave the formality. He was glad to see a familiar face. He gave his friend a weak smile and took the flowers. "Um. Thank you, Fool. Will you come in?" He moved out of the doorway and hoped that the Fool would agree. The cold emptiness of his new chamber, and the smells of dust and strewing reeds were so foreign that he craved anything that would distract him. The Fool was more than welcome.

    "I most certainly will, and I will take advantage of your hospitality," the Fool said with a grin. Upon walking in, he took in the absence of any contents of the chambers and spread his arms wide. "For there is so much here which you own that I will now make use of as if I myself were FitzChivalry!" he said sarcastically. The chamber was nearly empty, but the Fool had a few ideas to liven it up.

    Fitz laughed and then put the flowers into the wash basin, for lack of anywhere else to put them. They were nice and fragrant, and the bright colours reminded him of the Fool's motleys. "You can make use of anything you want," Fitz said. He went back to the bed and clambered up to sit down. "I miss the stables," he confided.

    The Fool looked at the arrangement of flowers critically. "You need a vase," he decided. His eye was naturally drawn to the tapestry. "Perhaps something with the same art style, or at least the same colours." He bounced down into a sitting position on Fitz's bed.

    Fitz looked vaguely horrified. "Please, no. I think the tapestry is already going to give me nightmares. What  _ is _ that?" He felt some of the tension leave him, though. When all of the world was changing around him, at least the Fool was constant. It was comforting. 

    "It's an Elderling!" the Fool exclaimed, hoping that this would abate Fitz's nightmares, since Elderlings were supposed to be good, and again forgetting that Fitz thought he was one.

    Fitz looked from the tapestry to the Fool. "Whoever made it didn't do a very good job, then." Then a thought occurred to him. What if that was what the Fool would look like when he grew up? He found it hard to imagine. "That's not...Is it really?"

    "Of course it is," the Fool confirmed, puzzling at Fitz's skepticism. "Most people don't remember what they look like, and so they turn out differently in each tapestry, or urn, or vase."

    "It's...Um. Well, it's really ugly. I'm surprised that you could tell." Fitz blushed, hoping that he had not insulted his friend. "Burrich gave me a horse today," he said, changing the subject to something safer. Then his blush darkened because he did not want to seem as though he were bragging, and he looked away, kicking his heels against the side of the bed. "She's not the same one we rode. If you wanted to, some time, when you're ready, we could ride together again."

    The Fool was glad he did not have to reply to the first statement. "Maybe he gave you a different horse because the first one laughed at you," he suggested, not quite registering the fact that Burrich wouldn't know that. "But perhaps we could."

    "Maybe," Fitz agreed, also not catching the slip. "I'd like it if we went riding, but we don't have to if you don't want to." He moved his hand to push his hair out of his face, but stopped short when he realized that he didn't have to with his hair trimmed and tied as it was. He stopped the useless motion and fidgeted. "Do you have a room here in the keep too?" Fitz asked. It occurred to him that he'd never actually known where the Fool spent his nights. 

    The Fool gave Fitz a look. "No, I hang from the ceiling." He giggled; he had not quite perfected sarcasm.. "My chambers are in an old tower that's too short to see anything."

    Fitz snorted. "That's a bit pointless." He looked around his own room. Three bare walls, a single window, the hideous tapestry. It wasn't very exciting, and he didn't even have any toys or games to play with the Fool.

    "I like it..." the Fool mumbled, looking at his feet. He had worked hard on his room, and it brought him comfort and joy. That was a point, was it not? Besides, the sun slanted in through the window just enough to hit the plants he kept near it. "It used to be able to see things, but then the castle got bigger around it."

    "Oh, I suppose that makes sense. Can I see your room some time?" Fitz’s curiosity had awoken, and he wondered if the room was as colourful as the Fool.

    The Fool looked back up at the tapestry with the Elderling. "Why do you think it's so ugly?"

    Fitz blinked at the change in topic, and then blushed when he realized that his unintentional insult had not been overlooked. "Well, nothing specific, really. It's just sort of frightening is all."

    The Fool cared not for any unintentional insult, seeing as he was not really an Elderling. He had just wanted to change the subject. "Elderlings are supposed to be frightening," he reasoned.

    Fitz scoffed and looked at his friend pointedly. "You aren't scary. You even make people laugh for a living."

    The Fool turned to regard Fitz seriously. He wondered why he continued on with this farce. "The Keep children are afraid of me," he reasoned.

    "The keep children are idiots," Fitz frowned, remembering their attack. His voice grew more passionate as he spoke. "They wouldn't be scared if they bothered to talk to you at all. You're funny, and kind, and you know all sorts of stories. You're brave--nobody but you would dare to mock Regal to his face, and you climbed all the way to the top of that tree. You make fun of people sometimes, but you wouldn't ever hurt them. They've got no reason to be afraid of you at all!"

    The Fool had been prepared to spout a bout of wisdom about why village men threw stones at bears that came too close, but he was entirely taken by surprise at Fitz's vehement defense. He gaped at his friend, his eyes shining with tears and his heart seizing. "Do you...really think so?"

    Fitz huffed and crossed his arms. "Of course I do. You...You're really nice, so...Anyway, don't pay any attention to what they think. If they try to hurt you, I'll stop them."

    Tentatively, the Fool rested his hand on top of Fitz's. "Thank you," he whispered.

    "I didn't do anything," Fitz mumbled, looking away. He turned his hand over to curl his fingers around the Fool's though. "You're my friend. Of course I'd stop them."

    The Fool gave Fitz's hand a brief squeeze. He was seized by a sudden moment of guilt. Here Fitz was, prepared to fight to the death for him (he exaggerated that bit) and the Fool had been lying to him all this time. "I'm not an Elderling," he blurted.

    “Huh?” Fitz was taken aback, and he looked at the Fool in consternation. “But, you said…you said that you talked with a dragon, and she was blue, and that you even rode on one before. You said…” He trailed off, brow furrowing. He looked at the Fool expectantly and released his hand, waiting for him to explain.

    The Fool missed the contact already. "I wanted you to think I was special," he admitted. "You're the most special person I've ever met, and I didn't think you would want to be friends with me if I wasn't special too. Besides--" Here his voice quieted-- "Maybe if you thought I was an Elderling, my appearance would not seem so strange to you."

    It was not so big a thing that the Fool had lied, but the Fool had  _ lied _ . Fitz ducked his head. His fear surged up that this had all been some joke, that they had not really been friends at all, but no. He looked back at the Fool and bit his lip. His friend was in earnest, and it sounded like he had been scared. Afraid that Fitz wouldn't like him if he was not special and magical. Fitz shook his head. "But, you aren't strange. I mean, you are sort of different, but you aren't strange. You're just the Fool. You didn't have to lie."

    The Fool blinked, and a tear formed on his colourless lashes. "I didn't want to be lonely," he said, looking up at Fitz again. "I thought it would be funny if you believed me, but then it wasn't really funny and I didn't tell you after because I thought you'd be angry." He bit his lip. "Are you angry?"

    Fitz thought about it, because it was a serious question and deserved to be thought about. He shook his head again at last. "No...Well, I am a little, but it doesn't mean I don't like you and...I know why you did. Just don't do it again, alright?"

    "Never. Never in my whole life." And he meant it. From that day forth, he would never lie to Fitz again. He held up his hand for the clasp he had seen soldiers do when making oaths. “I swear it by El."

    Fitz looked at the Fool's hand and then clasped his wrist. "Good. And I won't ever lie to you either, so it's fair. I swear it by Eda." It sounded very solemn the way they said it, and he felt very relieved having sworn such an oath. He felt very grown-up too.

    The Fool nodded briefly. He held onto Fitz's hand a moment too long, and then tugged. Not to pull his friend towards him, but to launch himself towards Fitz. They both went down , but the Fool immediately rolled off of the other boy and grabbed a pillow, taking a swing.

    Fitz squawked in an undignified way and was too startled to do anything but take the blow. He grinned, a puppy-like baring of the teeth, and lunged in an attempt to wrestle the other boy down. The Fool fended Fitz off with the pillow, but he knew that his wiry strength would be no match for the other boy's natural might. That is, if he played fair. While he still had the upper hand, he reached for Fitz's ribcage; maybe he was ticklish.

    Startled, Fitz laughed and flailed. It was the first time in his memory that someone had tickled him. He fell back with an ‘ooph’ and alternately swiped at the Fool's hands and clutched at his sides to try to protect himself. "Fool! Stop!" He gasped between laughs. Fitz squirmed and then tried again to knock the other boy down with a clumsily outflung arm and a twist.

    The Fool stopped only long enough to let Fitz catch his breath. His eyes sparkled with delight and his teeth were visible through his wide smile.

    Fitz panted and made a face at the Fool before returning the grin. Then he snatched the pillow and threw it at the Fool's head.

    The impetus from the pillow knocked the Fool from his crouched position onto his rear as he fell away from Fitz. He grunted faintly but laughed, going for the pillow instead of attacking Fitz's ribs again.

    Fitz grinned and laughed, and then his laughter turned into a yawn. It really had been a long day.

    The Fool handed Fitz his pillow back and then placed a hand on his knee. "You should sleep. I think they're going to make you take a lot of lessons."

    Fitz sighed. "It's awful. I don't see why I can't just keep learning from Burrich. I'm only with him for the mornings, and then it's weapons after noon. Later I'll probably learn how to read and write, and Burrich says maybe the Skill too."

    "Reading is fun!" said the Fool. "Maybe they'll let me teach you." The part about the Skill took him by surprise. "You already have magic. They're going to teach you more? That's lucky."

    Fitz flopped backward onto the bed. The featherbed really was much more comfortable than he was used to. "I'd love it if you could teach me. Would you? And I'm not sure about if they really will teach me the Skill or not. It's a Farseer magic, isn't it?"

    "Well, yes it is. But you're a Farseer." The Fool threw himself down alongside Fitz. "So it only makes sense that you learn it. And you know what's funny?"

    Fitz yawned again. He had not really thought of himself as a Farseer, truly, but he supposed that he was. "What?"

    "Regal doesn't know the Skill," the Fool chuckled. He was not supposed to know that, but he had heard Shrewd mention it to Verity. "And I don't think he has that other magic either."

    Fitz rolled onto his side and stared. "Really? No magic at all?" He couldn't imagine life without his Wit. It was as much a part of him as his sight, his smell, or his taste. He felt that he would be at a loss without it. He wasn't sure what the Skill was like, but it must be magnificent for the way it was whispered about. It served Regal right not to have it. 

    The Fool shook his head. "King Shrewd is disappointed about it, but he says it's because of the Queen." He also rolled over to face his friend. "I don't think he likes her very much, but you can't tell anyone."

    "I won't. I don't like her either." Fitz had seen her a few times, and each time she had glared at him with a hatred he did not think he had earned. She had a sharp tongue with the servants, too. "She doesn't seem like a nice person."

    "I think the only person she likes is Regal--er...Prince Regal." That was respectful, unlike his previous addresses of the younger Prince. "But it's alright. I never have to talk to her anyways." He blinked and sat up. "You should go to sleep."

    "Stay?" Fitz reached out and took hold of the Fool's forearm, and then released it. He looked away, embarrassed. "Er..." He sat up and ducked his head, avoiding eye contact, and played with the edge of his tunic. He could have repeated the request, or explained himself, but he couldn't force the words past his lips. He wanted the Fool to stay. Wanted a familiar friend in the new, strange smelling room. The Fool had come and filled the place with colour, laughter, and light. Imagining him gone and himself sitting alone with no-one but the tapestry was upsetting. But wanting someone was not the same as having, he knew, and asking meant being able to be rejected. He said nothing.

    The Fool laughed and swung his legs off the edge of the bed. It made it look like he was going to stand up and leave, but all he did was pull off his boots and stockings, nudging them under the bed. His hat he tossed into the chest at the end of the mattress and he laid back down to face Fitz.

    Fitz tensed, until he realized what the Fool was up to. He looked up and watched, and then relaxed. He gave the Fool a grateful smile, touched. He wanted to take his hand again, to feel the Fool and confirm that he was real, but he resisted the urge. Instead he got up. "There're two nightshirts in the chest. You can borrow one if you want to?"

    Sitting up again, the Fool appeared to think about this for a long time. "Alright," he agreed. After all, he had wandered the castle in a nightshirt before. "But you have to turn around. If you look, I won't stay"

    Fitz looked a bit hurt at the condition, but he nodded immediately. He didn't want the Fool to leave. He opened the chest. Inside was the Fool's hat, the two nightshirts, the few clothes he'd had from the stables, and a rolled woollen blanket. He pulled out the two nightshirts and tossed one to the Fool.

    The Fool caught the nightshirt and stared at Fitz unblinking until the other boy turned around. He pulled his shirt off and slipped the new garment on, and then pulled his leggings off. Fitz's room was colder than his, and a shiver ran up his spine as he felt a draught. He immediately fled to under the covers. "You can turn back."

    Fitz shook his head, but he'd grown used to the Fool's eccentricities and took the odder bits of his behaviour in stride. He stripped off his own clothing unashamedly, and wriggled into his nightshirt before coming around to crawl into the bed. "You're cold," he commented. "Do you want me to get the other blanket too?"

The Fool had closed his eyes when Fitz stripped, to give him the same respect for which he had asked. "It won't make a difference," he lamented. "I'm always cold. It's alright." He did curl up, however.

    "You can't be comfortable," Fitz grumbled. "How is that alright?" Practically, he scooted closer and snuggled up to Fool. Pups slept together in the kennels to keep warm, and he had been very comfortable sleeping with Nosy. Perhaps that would keep the Fool warm. It was like when they had held hands, only ten times warmer. The Fool let out a small exhale of comfort and tucked his head beneath Fitz's chin. Some of his hair stuck to the pillow, but the rest of it still managed to float around.

    Fitz blew to get it away from his nose, and then resorted to trying to smooth it down with a hand. He smiled. It was as soft as a rabbit's fur. "Good night, Fool."

    "Goodnight, Fitz," the Fool sighed, closing his eyes and making his breathing match his friend's. He fell asleep in no time.

    Fitz sighed and shut his eyes. The Fool's rhythmic breathing was soothing, and it was a comfort to have him there. "Thank you," he whispered, even though his friend was sound asleep. The tapestry with the Elderling was staring down at them, and the room did not smell like horses or Burrich, but Fitz found that he did not mind. It felt safe, and he let himself drift to sleep.

_ He had never had a broken heart before, so he never could have described it if anyone asked. But, if anyone had asked at that moment what he was feeling, he would have said heartbreak. The sun was out, and the gulls wheeled overhead, crying out to the water. He stood on the side of the street, but so close that a few wagons had already narrowly avoided his toes. He watched the door, waited for even the slightest sign of the handle moving. When it finally did, she shone like a beacon, piercing his heart. She smiled, but not at him, and laughed. It was silent, but he knew that laugh; he knew how musical it sounded. He smiled, but the mirth in his heart died as she stepped out the door and walked away from him. She had not even seen that he was there. Her red skirts swirled around her knees, and the corresponding breeze on the air urged him to look over his shoulder. A soft golden light shone from a tower in the Keep far above the hill, but the warm red coming from her _ _ was far more appealing. He took a step forward, reaching towards her, but he could not seem to move. She fell away from him, and he felt despair start to drown him. The only comfort was the golden light in the tower, but when he turned again, it was gone.  _

    The Fool sat up with a gasp. He had felt the Catalyst's heartbreak as clearly as his own, and a cool sweat drenched him. Despite the exhaustion Dreaming caused him, he was now wide awake, frozen as his mind tried to catch up to what he had seen.

    Fitz had tossed an arm over the Fool while they slept, and it was dislodged when the Fool sat up. Fitz blinked blearily, startled from a dream that was already fading from his mind. Mind still struggling to wakefulness, he wondered if he had imagined the small noise he had heard. But no. He had left the candelabra burning carelessly, and the candles had not yet guttered out. Their feeble light was enough for him to see by. The strange room came back around him, and the Fool was sitting up next to him. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, and then reached out to touch the Fool on the shoulder. "Fool? Whatsamatter?"

    The Fool blinked slowly and turned to regard Fitz. "I...red skirts," he whispered. "Crimson skirts will swath your love….but tightened lips will seal your past….The duty of the royal glove...will make your joy too sharp to last." His eyes cleared as he finished and he gripped both of Fitz's forearms with unnatural strength. "I--Fitz..."

    Fitz squinted in confusion, not really following what the Fool was trying to say, but doing his best. He came most of the way to wakefulness as the Fool gripped his arms, and felt surprised at the small boy's strength. He was not sure what was wrong, but the Fool seemed very out of sorts. He would have given the Fool a hug, because it seemed as though he needed one, but his arms were being held. He compromised by leaning forward and pushing his brow up against the Fool's. "You're alright," he said. "I think you were dreaming."

    The Fool found himself suddenly staring into Fitz's bottomless eyes. He could almost get lost in them... "I...I  _ was _ Dreaming." The way he said the word made it seem sacred, but he was afraid to tell Fitz the whole of it. What if he was not supposed to know he was the Catalyst yet? What if he panicked and fled?

Concerned, Fitz frowned, but he was satisfied that he had at least found the root of the problem. "Was it a bad dream?" he asked. He gently tugged his arms out of the Fool's grip and sat back, but he did not move far.

    A short whine left the Fool and he grabbed for Fitz's hands again. He did not know if Prophets were supposed to come into direct contact with their Catalysts after a Dream, but the damage was already done. "Yes," he said, "it was heartbreaking."

    Fitz's frown deepened and he studied the Fool's face in the dim light. He was almost all shadow, but Fitz could plainly see the distress in his expression and hear it in his voice. He pulled his hands free again, but this time he did not move away. He put his arms around the other boy's shoulders, less restrained with his touch while half asleep. He could not have said how he knew what to do, but he slid one hand into the Fool's hair and smoothed it in soft strokes. "You're alright," he repeated. "It was just a dream."

    The Fool dropped his head onto Fitz's shoulder. "No, no it wasn't. Do you remember what I told you about my magic?" He closed his eyes again, shuddering. Coming back to himself was always the hardest. "This was a magical Dream."

    "The ones that come true, right?" Fitz recalled. He did not know anything about that kind of magic, beyond what little the Fool had told him. But that did not matter. He leaned his cheek against the Fool's head and continued petting his hair. "That doesn't matter. If it makes you this sad, then I won't let it come true."

    "It has to come true," the Fool said desperately. He would have sat up, but he lacked the energy. "It's dangerous when they don't come true, so you have to help me." He was so tired. He closed his eyes and almost fell asleep against his friend.

    Fitz huffed in disbelief. "As if I would make you sad on purpose." He pulled the Fool down into the covers, where it was warm and comfortable, and then pulled the blanket up over the both of them. Then he threw his arm around the Fool. There. A small fortress against the world. "If it's dangerous, then I'll stop that too. Then you won't be sad, and nothing bad'll happen, so don't worry."

    The Fool just sighed. He simply did not understand at all. "Oh, Fitz..." He yawned. "I wish...there's so much I want to tell you." He closed his eyes and curled up into the other boy again. "I wish I had your magic too, so you could dream with me. Then you would understand..."

    "If you want to tell me something, say it." Fitz yawned and snuggled into the pillow. He didn't even mind getting a face full of the Fool's hair.

    "You..." said the Fool, and did not get anything else out before he sank back into sleep, though this time was Dreamless.

    Fitz waited, listening to the Fool's even breaths. When he was sure that the Fool was asleep, he shut his eyes. He would ask him to explain in the morning.

 

    The Fool was always up with the sun, and this was no exception. He had ever been an early riser, and he was supposed to report to Shrewd in the mornings. He slipped out from Fitz's embrace and retrieved his clothes, shoes, and hat. He bundled them up against his chest so they did not jingle and ghosted out of the room silently.

    By the time Fitz woke, the Fool had gone. Eyes still shut, he furrowed his brow in confusion, searching out for his companion by patting the covers. He frowned when he opened his eyes and looked around, but even the Fool's clothes were gone. He must have left. Fitz rubbed his eyes and slid out of bed, and then looked underneath it, just in case. No Fool. Fitz sighed and looked up at the tapestry of the Elderling. The eerie, oddly proportioned creature stared back. The room was empty and still, but it did not feel as oppressive as it had the night before. Fitz groaned as he realized that he was nearly late to meet Burrich at the stables. He would have to find the Fool another time. He threw his clothes on hurriedly, and tugged on his boots. There were flowers in his wash basin, and he was at a loss for what to do with them. Perhaps the Fool was right. He did need a vase. Until then, he was sure Burrich would not mind him washing up later. With a last look at the reds, yellows, and blues, Fitz hurried out the door.

 

_     “A bear is no more harmful than a man. In most cases, a bear is less dangerous than a man, because a bear is not interested in interfering with the routines man has set out for himself. Man, however, will tamper with anything he can get his hands on. A man will build a village in the middle of a forest, clearing trees and rocks in the way, sometimes even going so far as to try to redirect a river running through a location. Yet, he will fault a bear who lived there first for wandering too close. _

_     “If the bear approaches a human village, it is guaranteed that said humans (unless they be of Old Blood, and even then there is no certainty) will attack the animal. They do this because they are afraid that the bear will cause them harm. They are not brave enough to ask the bear, nor are they even willing to observe the bear for a time to glean his true intentions. And so, they drive the bear out with spears, snares, and thrown rocks: anything they can get their hands on. If they are lucky, the bear will not return. _

_     “This is not lucky for the bear, who was simply trying to adjust to the world that changed so rapidly around him.” _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	6. On Commencement and Companionship - Unity

_     For a brief time in my life, I was as content as any child could be, I think. I had a close friend in the Fool, and I had Chade as my mentor. They were my riches. In those early days, I flourished under their acceptance of me. I was happy. Chade took me and made me his. He scolded me when I needed it- but never with a heavy hand, he encouraged me, pushed me, and he took joy from my successes. I lived for his approval, and I was thoroughly his creature. With his steady guidance and attention, he won more devotion and affection than King Shrewd could ever have bought.  _

_     And the Fool won my young heart. He was my closest companion, and even if we saw each other only rarely in our busier days, we were still able to pick up exactly where we’d left off. We shared childish games as easily as we shared our more intimate feelings, and the Fool became to me what Nosey had been.  _

_     It is no wonder that Chade was suspicious of that friendship. To this day, I do not know exactly what his thoughts were on the matter. I only know that I was hurt by his expression of incredulity when I told him of our friendship. In hindsight, I can speculate that he was wary of the Fool’s influence over me. Chade had immeasurable sway over me, as devoted as I was. I believe that he was shocked to hear that anyone else might have become that close to me, and concerned that he would have a rival for the shaping of me. Chade has never trusted the Fool. He told me once that he suspected the Fool’s prophecy was mere madness: the product of some illness of the mind and body. How much of that conviction was borne of jealousy for yet another magic he could not master? I cannot say. _

_     Where Chade was wary of the Fool, and suspicious of his motives, others of the keep feared the Fool for his differences. I had a child’s way of accepting things for what they were, and so I was not long bothered by the Fool’s colourless eyes or his bizarre eccentricities. Others, though, were far less tolerant. That always surprised me, because I saw the kindness in each of the Fool’s jests. Surely others should have been able to see that he wanted to do good. It saddens me to think on all of the gestures he made to cheer, help, or console people that went unnoticed because those involved were blinded by his strangeness.  _

  
  


The Fool had tried to be more careful around Fitz. He had realized in the morning that the raw Dreams should not have been shared with the Catalyst. If the Prophecies weren't refined, then the Catalyst himself might try to interpret them himself. That could not happen. For that reason, the Fool did not spend another night in Fitz's chambers, but that did not mean that he abandoned the other boy. No, in fact, he tried to contact him as much as he could, but Fitz seemed to be increasingly busy with some task or other. He could not even find him sometimes, since he had his own duties, and that concerned him. However, he was always thinking about him, and every time he did see his friend he pulled him aside into a hallway or blocked his way to press an object into his hand. It was his way of letting Fitz know that he was still there. The items accumulated thus far included: a red feather, a perfectly round stone, a piece of weathered green glass, two silk ribbons, and a small wooden figure of a cat. This time, he had an amber-encased butterfly wing, but he had not seen Fitz all week. He was currently hiding in a bush, waiting for a certain pair of noble ladies to walk by so he could switch their handkerchiefs.

Fitz was tired. He was bone tired and exhausted, because he'd had an extra long session with Hod the day before, and Chade had summoned him not moments after his head had hit his pillow that night. The old man was so enthused about the subject of his education, that he had not let the yawning and bleary eyed Fitz descend to his chambers until nearly dawn. Fitz's eyes were bright, though. He had begun to thrive under Chade's tutelage. They met sometimes for several days in a row, and sometimes only every other week. The irregularity had worried Fitz at first, but it seemed that it was just Chade's way. Their longer sessions always had him half asleep through the whole of the next day. Last night, Chade had given him a new task to measure his skills and Fitz was eager to show the old man that he was learning all he had to teach. What skills they were, too. Pickpocketing, remembering odd gossip, and counting marbles were supplemented with the herbs that might be used to send a man into a permanent sleep, or where to stab a man so that the least amount of blood would pour out. Today's task was harmless. He stalked the gardens, waiting for his targets.

For the Fool, his own task was almost too easy. The ladies were caught up in their gossip, discussing scandals all across the Duchies and the latest fashions put on display by Prince Regal. They even stopped to admire the flowers, and in doing so put their backs to the Fool's hiding place. He slipped the handkerchiefs out from their sashes, where they had been loosely tucked in. Just as he had been about to replace them in the wrong places, he caught a glimpse of Fitz on the other side of the ladies. Dismissing his prank, the Fool slipped from the bush and ran around the long way to approach Fitz from one of the many other paths that crossed the gardens. The ladies, caught up in a good laugh, did not notice anything amiss.

Intent on his task, Fitz did not notice the Fool’s approach. Chade would have scolded him for not being more aware of his surroundings. He was hidden behind a bench, well concealed, he thought. It was a beautiful day, and many of the court ladies had elected to stroll the gardens in their leisure hours. Fitz carefully slipped a handkerchief from a woman's sash with a gentle tug and tucked it into his pocket.

The Fool waited respectfully until Fitz's victim had walked away, and then he leaned forward to whisper into his ear. "Good afternoon, princeling," he said with an airy laugh. He realized then that he still clutched the handkerchiefs, but was delighted to see that Fitz had the same idea.

At the Fool’s words, Fitz gasped and startled, barely managing not to give himself away. He stared, wide eyed at the Fool. "What are you doing here?" He whispered, and then he glanced down at the handkerchiefs in the Fool's hand. If he had to steal those too, he would be out of luck. The Fool wasn't a court lady, though, and so he supposed that he didn't count.

"I found you!" the Fool whispered back, excitedly. "I hope you weren't supposed to be hiding, because then you would not be doing a very good job." He kept his giggle as quiet as possible.

Fitz blushed. He had been supposed to be hiding. "Well, no one else found me. You're the only one." He smiled, glad to see his friend. They'd stolen moments together when they crossed each other's paths, but they were always brief. The Fool had taken to bringing Fitz small gifts for some reason, and Fitz had amassed a small collection of interesting things. It was their time together that he cherished most of all, though. He bit his lip in thought. The Fool would love some of Chade's games, he was sure. "Are you busy?" he asked.

The Fool glanced between the two pieces of silk in his hands. "No, not particularly. I suppose it's too late to catch up to them now..." He shrugged and tucked the handkerchiefs into his own belt.

"What were you doing with those?"

"I was going to switch them, but you distracted me," the Fool explained.

Fitz noted the differing patterns and nodded in understanding. "Oh, that's a good one. It must be harder than what I'm doing. Would you like to help? I'm collecting handkerchiefs. I'm going to put them over in the fountain later. They'll think a garden nymph or a water sprite did it."

The Fool nodded, a grin splitting his face. "How many do you need?"

“As many as I can get," Fitz said. "It'll be faster with the two of us." His smile spread into an answering grin. He loved doing missions for Chade, but sharing one with the Fool would make it even better. Something for his mentor, with his friend. Looking back, he wasn't sure how he'd managed before he'd become friends with the Fool, and now that he had Chade as his master, he felt as if he couldn't possibly need anything else ever again. 

"Do you want to split up? We can make a game of it. Whoever gets the most wins something?" Despite his non-violent nature, the Fool was quite competitive.

"Deal. I'll go that way," Fitz said, gesturing.

"Meet at the fountain in an hour," the Fool confirmed, sprinting off again.

It was a fun time, more fun than it would have been without the edge of competition and the occasional glimpses of the Fool as he spirited away a lady's kerchief. Fitz was not to be outdone, and he did his best to collect as many as he could. His pockets soon grew full, and he began to tie them around his belt. He hoped that he wouldn't lose one, or give himself away with their colours. But if the Fool could be stealthy with his garish motley, he was sure that he would manage. He crept to hide in one of the bushes by the fountain when he approximated that their allotted time was nearly up.

The handkerchiefs were completely camouflaged among the Fool's motley, which today appeared to be a patchwork of every single leftover piece of brightly coloured fabric. He lost count of how many he had, but it was great fun nonetheless. He arrived at the fountain a little later than Fitz and sat on the low stone basin.

Fitz took a glance around to be sure that there were no witnesses. He untied his collection of kerchiefs and held them in a bundle in his hands. Spotting no-one other than the Fool, he crept from his hiding place to join his friend, his eyes alight with pleasure.

The Fool began laying the squares of cloth out on the lip of the fountain, folding each into triangular halves before he put them down. He counted them as he did. "Seventeen!" he announced.

Fitz laid his out as well, but he'd counted as he went along. "Only twelve, you beat me by a lot." Fitz was impressed. The Fool had been faster at moving from group to group, he thought, whereas he'd been more cautious.

"Wait!" the Fool exclaimed. He reached up near Fitz's head and appeared to pull out another square of cloth, folded very small, from behind his ear. "There, you had thirteen." Indeed, the proffered kerchief was the first one Fitz had stolen, which he had been holding during their initial meeting.

Fitz laughed. Though he'd begun to learn sleight of hand at Chade's feet, he never grew tired of the Fool's tricks. "How could I have missed it?" He asked, dryly. Some of his sense of humour, he'd begun to pick up from Chade. He looked to the water of the fountain. "Ready to throw them in?" 

The Fool nodded, picking up each square by its centre and letting it float down into the water. He smiled at the way the water soaked through them and they seemed to take on an ethereal quality.

In contrast, Fitz dropped his in by the handful, less inclined to be taken by fanciful imaginings. "I suppose that's that done," he said. "Thanks for your help. I think this is more than enough. It would have taken me ages without you."

"Wait." The Fool grabbed Fitz's arm to make sure he would not leave. "Here." He retrieved the crystalized butterfly wing and offered it to Fitz, the sunlight reflecting off of its facets.

Fitz took it and then looked at the small chunk of amber in his hand with interest. It was beautiful and he said as much while he held it up to the light to admire it. The butterfly had been perfectly preserved. "Amber is really lovely, isn't it?" He commented.

The Fool was very glad Fitz liked his gift. "I think so too," he agreed, admiring Fitz admiring the crystal.

"Thank you, Fool.” Fitz smiled. ”I wish that I had something for you. You keep giving me things."

"You don't need to give me anything," said the Fool with a shake of the head. "As long as you like them, that's enough for me."

"I love them," Fitz declared, tucking the amber away in his pocket. "Still, it doesn't seem fair. Is there anything that you want?" 

The Fool regarded his friend for a moment, but he could think of nothing. Later, he would berate himself for not asking for a hug, at least. "No. I just enjoy your friendship and company."

"Well, you know that's enough for me too, don't you?” Fitz frowned. “You don't need to give me things or do anything special for me to like you. You're my best friend." 

"You're my best friend too!" the Fool agreed. "But I just find these things, and they make me think of you. Besides, you need more things for your room. I have enough."

"You still haven't let me see your room," Fitz commented, but not harshly. It might have been confusing, but he accepted the Fool's reluctance with minimal fuss. He looked back at the handkerchiefs. "We should probably get away from the evidence." 

"Good point." The Fool took Fitz's hand and dragged him back through the gardens towards the Keep, the flight providing another distraction from the topic of his room.

Fitz gripped the Fool's hand easily while they ran. The casual physical contact was another thing that he had come to accept and even enjoy a surprising amount. And of course, he liked the running. He didn't know why, but whenever they ran anywhere, he felt as though it were just the two of them in the whole world, running along a path that was just for the two of them and that only they could see. Or only the Fool, he supposed, but he was content to be led as they made their way in the direction of the Keep.

They remained outside, for the Fool truly did prefer the open air to the confines of the stone Keep, but as they ran the grounds became less refined, the grass longer, the flora more unruly. They ended up at a spot between the side of the Keep and the wall, a space that was only about ten feet wide, but it spanned the whole length of the Keep and they had it all to themselves. Fitz looked at the secret spot approvingly. It was a good one, away from the eyes of the nobility and servants who were equally prone to indulge in vicious gossip, in Fitz's experience. Chade had him collecting bits of information, and Fitz was proud each time he successfully remembered a conversation word for word, but truthfully, that side of people disturbed him. He had spent a long time hearing  _ But for the boy, he'd still be in line for the throne... _ and  _ Him? That's just the bastard.  _ . So, it was a relief to be away from those people. "This is nice," he complimented wholeheartedly.

"We aren't even in the right place yet," the Fool giggled. Further on down the natural corridor, there was a section of grass that had been trimmed. Within it were small growing buds of various flowers, as well as what could only be described as an entrance to a burrow.

Fitz looked around while they walked, taking in the moss on the old stones of the wall, and the variety of plants. Perhaps this place had, at one time, been a garden. When they arrived at the tiny clearing, Fitz smiled. It really did seem like a garden. "Did you clean this up yourself?" 

"I did. You see, I found these rabbits." Here the Fool got down on his hands and knees and tried to peer into the hole. "I thought they needed a garden too, because they're always being chased out of the Women's Garden."

Fitz nodded. The Fool's concern for creatures other than humans had always endeared him to Fitz. Rabbits were prey animals, but they still deserved to have a good life while they lived. "That's really nice." Fitz complimented while he knelt down, aware that the rabbits would probably be hiding or off collecting food. "I could bring some things from the kitchens, next time. Some scraps of vegetables they could eat. I've gotten pretty good at stealing things." 

"Maybe they wouldn't go into the other gardens then, and then they wouldn't get hurt," the Fool suggested with a smile. "That's a good idea." 

"Thanks," Fitz smiled, and then he yawned. As he relaxed from their excitement, he began to notice his tiredness again. "I can ask Cook Sara for some food and we can have another picnic some time when we both have time. We haven't done that in ages."

The Fool tipped his head slightly as he regarded his friend. "Not today, though," he said. "You're tired, and it's barely past high noon. Did you not sleep last night? "

"No, but it's alright. I'll probably sleep tonight, and then it'll be fine. Honestly though, I think that Ch-should be fine. It should be fine," Fitz caught himself and then recovered. He was forbidden to speak of Chade to anyone. "I missed spending time with you. Thanks for your help with the handkerchiefs."

The Fool looked up, and changed to a sitting position. "Why were you stealing them, anyways? Burrich would have your head if he knew."

"Oh, just for fun," Fitz hedged. "It's harmless, and Burrich won't know it was me. I've gotten good at lots of things!" He reached over, and produced his own handkerchief from behind the Fool's ear, in a mimicry of the trick the Fool had done earlier. He smiled, proudly. "See?"

"Wow, did someone teach you how to do that?" It had taken the Fool a while to learn himself, and if there was someone else in the castle who could do 'magic' like that then he wanted to meet them.

Fitz winced. He'd given himself away again. The handkerchief disappeared up his sleeve. "Um. No, it just looked like fun." And then he winced again. They'd made a promise. He hung his head. "No, I'm sorry, Fool. I lied. Someone did teach me, but I can't tell you who. It's a secret."

"I know lots of secrets too," said the Fool, nodding. "And as much as I would like to tell you, King Shrewd made me swear. So I understand." He wondered if this had to do with the mysterious 'shadow' that he had overheard the King talking with.

Fitz gave the Fool a look of contrition. "I'm sorry that I lied, we promised not to. I won't do it again."

"That's alright. You forgave me for lying, and you apologized right away. I can't be angry with you." The Fool smiled at his friend and then pointed with a quiet gasp when he saw one of the rabbits a little ways away.

Fitz froze, holding perfectly still so as not to startle the rabbit. He glanced at the Fool and grinned. 

The Fool was watching the rabbit with wide eyes, but it would not come any closer because the two boys were sitting too close to its burrow. The Fool whispered, "Can you use your magic and tell it we won't hurt it?"

"I suppose I could... I haven't really talked with a rabbit before."

"Is it different to talk to different animals?" the Fool queried. He was still not quite clear on how the Wit-magic worked.

Fitz thought about it. "I... I think so. I don't know why." He quested out toward the rabbit cautiously, trying to send feelings of calm and safety. It fled. Fitz's shoulders slumped.

The Fool looked from Fitz to where the rabbit had been. "Did you do that?" He thought about it for a moment. "Perhaps you did it too loudly, and it was just as scared as if someone had yelled at it."

Fitz frowned after the rabbit and sighed, "Maybe. I thought I was being nice, but I guess I scared him. I hope that he comes back..."

“I'm certain he will come back once we leave," the Fool reassured him with a gentle touch to the arm.

Fitz looked doubtful, but nodded nevertheless. It was kind of the Fool to try to reassure him. "Hopefully," he said, unable to keep all of the doubt from his tone. "Do you come here a lot?"

"When I can," the Fool, "but--" He was cut off by a woman's scream and his head jerked up. It was coming from the direction of the fountain.

Fitz looked wide-eyed in that direction, concerned for a moment, and then realized what must have happened. He grinned. "Do you suppose someone found them?"

"So it seems," said the Fool, getting to his feet. "Shall we go see?" He offered his friend his hand.

Fitz nodded, accepting the Fool's hand and rising. "We should stay out of the way, though. It's better if no-one notices us."

"Fitz," the Fool tutted. "Have you again forgotten that I am King Shrewd's royal jester? If there is mischief, I am sure to go see. After all, what better way than that to churn out whimsical tales and deal out mockery all 'round?" The last remark was said in his stage voice, and he wiggled his eyebrows.

Fitz smiled in relief, "Alright, then. Let's go!" he gripped the Fool's hand more tightly and then pulled him into a run in the direction of the gardens.

The Fool slipped his hand out of Fitz's and pulled ahead of him, but ended up turning around to face him and skipping backwards merrily. The action made the bells on his hat bounce, and a faint jingle filled the air between them.

Fitz 's eyes lit at the challenge and he sped up, trying to overtake the Fool. As he began to close the distance between them, he made a swipe for the Fool's hat, trying to steal it off of his head. The Fool ducked away from him and into a handspring. It was well-executed, but it also slowed him down, allowing Fitz to pull ahead of him. Fitz laughed as he darted ahead, but knew better than to underestimate the Fool. He did glance back, though, just to be sure that the boy was following.

The Fool was most certainly following, and he snatched his own hat off his head so he could run faster without the fear of it falling off. His legs weren't as long as his friend's but they had less weight to carry and were more used to carrying it.

Fitz slowed as they entered the gardens proper, weaving between the slower moving people that had gathered, and eventually settled back into a walk as they neared the fountains. The Fool had no such reservations. His station allowed him to act more rashly than anyone else, and he ran through the Gardens, weaving between people's legs to get a spot in the front.

Fitz watched the Fool worm his way through, and hesitated. Child though he was, he had never felt comfortable making a nuisance of himself by being underfoot. His very existence was met with too much contempt. Instead, he hung back and listened to the whispers as people began to speculate about the strange occurrence, exclaiming over missing handkerchiefs or making signs to ward off spirits. He hopped up and down a few times, hoping to see over people's shoulders.

The Fool had climbed up onto the lip of the fountain, making a great show of puzzling over the kerchiefs in the water. He suddenly pirouetted, turning to face the assembled crowd on one side. As he spoke, he carefully tread the stone lip so he could address the people all around the fountain. "'Ware ye, for what strange and foul things walk here? Who among us has so incensed the spirits that they seek now to inconvenience us?" He paused dramatically, his eyes roving the crowd. He noticed a few people staring in contempt at him, and singled each out in turn. "Is it you, with your powder so hastily applied? Or you, who has sweated through your fine silks? Perhaps you, who so clearly bears the marks of a recent tryst." With a gasp, he came to a stop, squaring his feet on the ledge to face the direction just a little to Fitz's right. 

"Or perhaps it was no incensure at all, but a plot! Oh yes, a plot!" The Fool pointed at an older lady in a sky blue dress, who recoiled in shock at his accusing finger. "See here, how is it she still has her kerchief of the day, which all you others lack?" Several people shot the woman baleful looks, but the Fool giggled. "Peace, people. This woman means you no ill-will. She simply wishes to show you that all ye who believe your young age to give you an edge over her in court are mistaken. For wisdom comes with age, but it is also true that age comes with wisdom. Look upon her with scorn no longer, and you will soon find your silks remain more firmly fastened at your waists!" With a little wave towards the lady, he hopped down from the fountain and darted away. The courtiers were to shocked to stop him, and the Fool hoped Fitz had the wisdom to follow.

Fitz, upon hearing the Fool's voice, abandoned his reservations and shoved his way through the crowd to watch. Small as he was, no-one seemed overly upset. He watched wide-eyed while the Fool donned his jester's persona and made his speech. It was incredible, the way he could turn their prank into something grander. He glanced at the woman in the blue dress. A lady from Farrow, if he remembered correctly. Married to a minor Lord with land on a major trade river. He looked to the Fool again and wondered at the kindness beneath his barbed words. He hoped that the woman would be better treated, and not ostracized further. She'd be the subject of some amount of gossip for certain. When the Fool was done, Fitz waited a moment longer to listen to the excited chatter among the gathered nobility before squeezing his way through the forest of legs and skirts to find the Fool. He grinned when he sighted him and trotted to catch up. "That was fantastic," he breathed.

The Fool grinned wide and bowed to him. "I am overjoyed that you enjoyed the performance, my lord." When he straightened, the jester's tone had been replaced by that of a friend once more. "Did you see their faces?" he squeaked excitedly. "They truly believed it was water spirits, even though we were right there! King Shrewd was right, it  _ is _ best to hide in plain sight!" Little did he know that it had not been King Shrewd who uttered those words but Chade, whom he had heard through the heavy wooden door to the King's solar.

Fitz grinned, having heard the same advice many times from his mentor's lips. "It was you who convinced them, though! I didn't know you could perform like that." And it was true. Before he'd come to be apprenticed to Chade, he hadn't taken his meals in the Great Hall or mixed with the other children in the quieter hours when the hall was filled with people passing their evening hours.

A musical laugh passed the Fool’s lips. "Well, what did you think my job was? Eda's head, FitzChivalry, what did you suppose I did in the crowds you so expertly hide from?"

Fitz blushed. "Well, I mean, I know that you're a fool, I just..." He trailed off, unsure how to continue without accidentally insulting his friend. 

The Fool simply raised an eyebrow. He had recently mastered the gesture in his looking glass and used it whenever he could

Fitz 's blush darkened, and he scuffed the toe of one boot against the grass. "I never really saw you perform before. I knew that you  _ must _ be good to have been chosen by King Shrewd, but I hadn't actually..." He trailed off again helplessly.

It would have done the Fool no good to tell Fitz that he had not been chosen for his tumbler's skills. "Well, now you have," he said quietly, and nudged Fitz's leg with his knee, much like a cat might bump its head against someone from whom it craves attention.

Fitz gave the Fool a crooked smile and then gave the Fool's pointed boot a nudge. "You're very good," he complimented. "They'll be talking of nothing else for a week at least!"

"That was the idea," the Fool replied with a wink. A court in a whirl over a strange event was far superior to one laced with rumours and scandals. That was as much a part of his job as anything else

Fitz rolled his shoulders and sighed contentedly. "Well, it was successful. I should probably go soon. I've got to report for weapons practice... Have you thought about riding? We could meet up and go some time. Sooty's a gentle old girl- she's my horse- and I'm sure that you won't fall." 

The Fool considered this. "Alright”, he agreed. ”But have a care. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice..." His grin was mischievous. "...you might find yourself Fooled the third time."

Fitz smiled at the Fool, a happy smile that crinkled his eyes mostly shut. "Oh, I don't think I'd mind. But I'm not tricking you. Burrich's been teaching me more, and Sooty is very calm and experienced. One student at a time, Burrich said."

"If he said that, am I to take it as meaning that you plan to disobey him? For if I count us here, there is one and two." He tapped his own chest first, and then Fitz's. "Can your old horse handle it?"

Fitz was sheepish. "Well, perhaps. It'll be alright though. Sooty can definitely handle it, and the two of us won't be too heavy."

"Very well then!" the Fool exclaimed. "Tell me when and where, and so I shall be there!" He looked pleased with this little rhyme.

Fitz thought it over. He was tired, and he longed to have a rest after arms practice. With luck, his sleep that night would be uninterrupted, but if Chade chose to call on him, then he would prefer to have at least a few hours of sleep beforehand. "Tomorrow evening?" Fitz suggested. "I can bring some food from the kitchens, and we can meet by the postern gate?"

"Deal," said the Fool, reaching out to shake Fitz's hand

Fitz shook the Fool's hand solemnly. "Very well, then. Tomorrow." He felt a small thrill of excitement at the idea. He and the Fool had not had much time together recently, and he had been kept busy with lessons so that he had little time for fun save for the games that Chade would play with him. An adventure with the Fool sounded wonderful, and he thought back with longing to their first adventure to the beach.

The Fool smiled, pulled Fitz close, and planted a kiss on his cheek, the way he had seen nobles do when greeting and parting from each other. "Until tomorrow, then." He waved and ran off.

Fitz felt his face heat at the show of affection, but felt a bit happy as well. He really had missed the Fool. Fitz kept that excitement with him while he practiced with his stave, and afterward while he cleaned himself up and nursed his new bruises. He was pleased, possibly for the first time in his life, with the shape his life had taken. 

Fitz kept carefully alert during dinner for any interesting gossip, and he hid a smile behind his bread while the ladies discussed the Handkerchief Incident in hushed tones. Fitz's eyes found the woman in the blue dress, seated halfway up the table from him toward the dais. She seemed positively proud, and Fitz thought it good that the Fool, through words alone, had managed to improve her life a bit. By the time the meal was done, he was yawning and he found his bed almost immediately afterward, only pausing to remove his boots and jerkin. As he flopped down, he felt something dig into his leg and he reached into his pocket to retrieve the bit of amber. He smiled at it and rose to put it on his wash stand with the other little things. The small ornaments made the room feel more lived in, and he was pleased by that. He sighed, and went back to his bed where he dozed for a time, content. 

 

Queen Desire was enraged, no, disgusted was a better word. That disgusting creature her husband had taken in had caused a fuss in the gardens that had upset her ladies and had thoroughly ruined her snubbing of Lady Meara, who had been looking far too full of herself at dinner. She'd excused herself to her solar, accompanied by her favoured ladies, unable to stand the sight any longer. They hissed and exclaimed and shook their heads in dismay with her, and Desire felt her annoyance grow. Shrewd had always been a soft king- an unambitious king. He had no desire to expand their trade or grow their riches, content instead to rule over an isolated kingdom populated by heathens with no appreciation for culture. She took a deep draught of smoke from her censer. She was not so blind or so ignorant to think that the great, hulking stone fortress they called a castle could be considered luxurious. Why, she had demanded, did Shrewd not live like the king he was? What a coward. She was half convinced that he was losing his mind as well, the way he favoured that wretched, pale fool of his. Yes, she thought, she would have to remind him that she knew how royalty ought to live. If he would not listen, then she would leave him. Go back to Farrow and rule as duchess. If she opened trade and made allies, she could even rise up against Shrewd and take his whole kingdom from him. And Regal would be king after. Her precious boy knew the worth of royal blood. She left her solar, leaving her ladies to their pleasures, intent on finding King Shrewd.

The Fool had just exited King Shrewd's chambers. For some reason, the King had pressed him hard about the Incident earlier that afternoon, though he seemed more interested in Fitz's part in it. The Fool told him, but he was worried that he might get his friend in trouble. He hoped they could still go riding the next day, and he resolved once more to come clean to Fitz. He was feeling terrible, realizing he was quite an awful friend indeed. So absorbed was he in these thoughts that he barely dodged Queen Desire, who was sweeping down the hall at an alarming pace.

Desire halted, and just avoided walking into the current object of her ire. She swayed unsteadily on her feet, the smoke having gone to her head. Her lip curled up in distaste as she observed the pathetic, wormy creature. She spat at him. "You dare to obstruct my way, you filthy thing?"

The Fool danced out of the way of her spit, trying to keep his face contrite. "I apologize, my Queen," he said in a small voice, bowing deeply. Unlike his manner with Shrewd, the Fool did not look anywhere near the Queen's head, but rather at her many-ringed hand. That hand came up surprisingly quickly, and struck an open-handed blow across the Fool's face. 

"Insolent wretch! Cur." Desire glared at him venemously. "A fool. My husband is the fool, allowing one such as you to hover at his side like a diseased dog." 

The Fool had apologized, and thought it very unfair that he had still been struck. He blinked the tears out of his eyes and tried again. "I apologize most sincerely, my lady." There was only one person who frightened him more than Regal, and here she loomed in front of him. Mustering his courage, he added in a quavering voice: "Tell me what I have done to cause you harm, my Queen, and I shall do my best to repair it."

Desire frowned down blearily at the Fool. He was a pathetic sight. "Everything about you offends me," she said with deliberate clarity to her otherwise slurred words. "Now, open the doors." She fluttered a hand in their direction. "I want to speak to my  _ husband _ ."

"The doors are not locked, my lady," said the Fool contritely, stepping even further out of her way. "But I must warn you, the King told me he wished to retire. He has done much today." The words slipped from his lips before he had considered the consequences, but he was defending his master as loyally as any hound.

Desire narrowed her eyes, and her voice became shrill. If she'd had anything at hand, she would have thrown it. She contented herself with striking the Fool again, hard enough to turn his head and to redden his other cheek. "Are you questioning your queen, filth?" she demanded. How lax her husband was, to allow his servant to speak with such a free tongue. "I should have you hanged for such disrespect!" 

The Fool let himself fall to the ground when he stumbled back. It was easier than remaining on his feet and risking the Queen's accusations of further insolence. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his cool hand pressed to his cheek. His face was turned away from her, but his eyes widened and he would have gone paler if it was possible. "My Queen," he added hastily, scarcely believing he had forgotten the honourific. "I'm sorry, my Queen."

Queen looked down at the wretch coldly. "I believe that I asked you to open the door." Her words were icy cold. She took a deliberate step forward. It brought her some satisfaction to see him crawling before her. He deserved it for his disrespect, and for ruining her plans with Lady Meara. A thought occurred to her. It must have been deliberate. It must have been done at Shrewd's orders. The old coward had always enjoyed taking things from her and ruining her ambitions. She narrowed her eyes further, and then took hold of the Fool's collar. "The gardens. You did it on purpose, didn't you? You meant to ruin everything. He told you to, didn't he?" 

The Fool blinked as a great panic overwhelmed him. "I..." He swallowed, blinking again. "King Shrewd..." He blinked once too many times. He would most certainly be punished for his hesitation. "King Shrewd did not tell me to go to the gardens," he said. "I went there on my own, to look at the flowers, my lady." King Shrewd had told him to fix the issue with Lady Meara. He had not specified how. This was the only way the Fool knew to stay loyal to his King without lying.

Desire didn't hear much beyond the words 'King Shrewd'. She didn't care to hear any of the Fool's denials. In her mind, her own suspicions had already been confirmed. "That pig. That fat, old, ineffectual pig!" She released the Fool in disgust, throwing him back to the ground and then spat at him again, ignoring the way the Fool’s head thudded against the wall. The pathetic creature threw his arms up over his head, hiding his unnatural face from view. Desire felt some small satisfaction from his cowering, but not enough to quell her bitterness toward her husband. "I'll have his kingdom from him. I will! He dares to think that he can weave his little plans and ruin all I've tried to accomplish? That coward. That imbecile. I am a queen, not a child to be content with platitudes!" Desire raged on, and then kicked the Fool for good measure. "Open the door, you filth!"

As Queen Desire’s shrill order washed over him, the Fool wiped the spittle from his cheek and stood. He refused to crawl- refused to show her that she had hurt him that much. In that way, he would remark in later years, he was much like Fitz. He opened the door, again dropping into a bow with one arm outflung into the darkness of the King's antechambers, gesturing at his Queen to precede him. 

King Shrewd was already halfway to the door, having heard the muffled commotion. He took in the sight of his drug addled wife, and the Fool bent at her side with a grim look. He ignored his wife in favour of the Fool. He knew that it would irritate her. "Fool, what goes on here?"

The Fool looked up--right into the King's eyes. So traumatized as he was, he did not look away, but desperately pleaded with Shrewd to protect him. Those colourless eyes could speak volumes, if so needed. "The Queen wished to see you, my lord." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I informed her that you had retired, but she was insistent..."

Shrewd had surmised as much from the tableau at his door, but he nodded nevertheless. "You did well, Fool, to let her in. It is a difficult thing to argue with some people. Addicts cannot be talked out of their vices, idiots seldom accept a truth that disagrees with their own assumptions, and those of noble birth are often too spoiled to respect the people around them. All of those are only examples, of course. Surely my fair wife is too civilized to be seen causing a fuss in a public corridor, abusing the servants and shouting to announce her treason." 

Desire flushed darkly, in fury rather than in any shame. She shoved her way into Shrewd's quarters, glaring contemptuously at the Fool while she did so.

Once the Queen broke the line of sight between himself and the King, the Fool dropped his eyes, waiting to be dismissed.

Shrewd looked down at him, ignoring his wife as she stormed past him into his room. He wouldn't be getting much sleep that night, he feared. His expression softened and he patted the Fool once on the head. "I apologize for my wife, Fool. She has more temper and ambition than sense, I'm afraid. One of the most regrettable of my mistakes... But never mind. You're dismissed." 

"Thank you, sir," said the Fool, trying to keep his voice from breaking. He succeeded, but it wavered instead. Biting his lip he turned and walked away, ghosting back up to his chambers.

 

The sun westered and was gone, putting Fitz’s room into darkness before a draft signalled the opening of the secret passageway. It was the third night in a row that Chade had called the boy to him. Contrary to his apprentice's beliefs, he made no error in just how little sleep he was allowing him. His error, rather, was in overestimating the boy's energy. Chade was not a young man, and he had not been a boy in a very long time. He waited in his chair by the fire for Fitz to come up, eager to discuss the day's events with him. He was glad his brother's pet fool had waited to interfere until the young assassin had finished his task.

Fitz ascended the narrow staircase, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He smiled when he saw Chade, and came to take his customary seat at the old man's feet. "I did everything you asked, Chade," Fitz reported, proudly. "Everyone was talking about it at the table." 

"I know," Chade replied with that mysterious smile of his. It was different than the Fool's: proud where the boy's was mischievous and calm where the Fool's was excited. Yet he looked down at the boy at his feet. "I trust you found it easy? "

"Oh yes," Fitz confirmed, bobbing his head in a nod. He beamed up at Chade. "Give me another one! I'll bet you that I can do it." He was ever eager to impress his master. Realizing that he'd skipped the step of fully reporting, he asked: "Do you want me to report?" 

Chade chuckled with the dryness of old age. "I had faith you would not forget that." The boy's swift performance had left him in a fine mood. "Report then, Fitz," he said a little more seriously, though there was still a twinkle in his eye.

Fitz wriggled like a happy pup and settled in to report, grinning up at Chade all the while. He told him in great detail how he'd found the best hiding places in the gardens, and how he'd carefully and stealthily slid the kerchiefs from their hiding places. He then told about how he'd met the Fool, and enlisted him in his plan. "I didn't mention that it was for you though," Fitz assured, "I told him that it was for fun. We collected thirty in all, and we left them all in the fountain. We left then, but it wasn't long before we heard a scream..." He went on to tell of the Fool's dramatic performance, and how the lords and ladies had been murmuring about spirits over their dinner. "And the woman in the blue dress was happy after that. All it took was a few words from the Fool!" 

Chade listened to his apprentice with great satisfaction, but a slow frown began to take over his face when the Fool was mentioned. This task had not been meant for him, and he should have warned the King to keep him out from underfoot. "You spoke with the Fool? Did he seem over eager to help you?" He had always had a nagging suspicion--and El take his paranoid soul!--that his brother's jester was not as well-meaning as he seemed. He was glad to hear of Lady Meara, however, who had been dangerously close to leaving the court due to her undue attentions from the Queen. 

Fitz was puzzled by Chade's frown, and worried too that he'd somehow displeased him. The idea put a knot in his belly. He knew that Burrich would have had his hide if he caught him passing work to the other stablehands. "I'm sorry if I should have done it all myself... I didn't mean to be lazy. It's just that I used to speak with the Fool quite often, he's my friend, and so when I came across him pilfering handkerchiefs too, I thought that we could make a game of it..." He blushed. "He was eager to help, but only because it meant that we could play." 

Fitz's admission of friendship both appeased his suspicions and shocked him to the very core. "The Fool is your friend?" Last he had known, the pale creature did not much speak, mostly just sitting calmly in the corner of Shrewd's room when he was not performing. His suspicion came back tenfold. Why had the Fool chosen to befriend Fitz? 

Fitz nodded slowly. "My best friend," he clarified, though he had only the one. It hurt a bit that Chade seemed so surprised. "We met each other... It must have been three years ago now. It wasn't long after I came here. He's always been very kind to me."

Chade stood to face the fire, his agitation having driven him to his feet. "But  _ why _ ?" he questioned the flames. Turning, he addressed Fitz once more. "Tell me all of this, boy, and then tell me why you failed to do so before."

Fitz blinked up at Chade, scooting out of the way of his legs when he rose so as not to get in the way. His concern over Chade's sudden change in mood began to border on alarm. "But what's the matter, Chade? I don't understand. I didn't mean to keep the Fool a secret, only he never came up before."

"Just--" Chade's voice was strained. "Just tell me of your friendship with him, my boy." He passed a hand over his eyes and sat down. As if the OutIslander raids and Chivalry's abdication had not been enough to deal with. "Report," he said in the tone he knew Fitz could not refuse.

Fitz watched Chade worriedly. He bit his lip, torn between wanting to shy away and wanting to be sure of Chade's affection. After a moment of hesitation, he scooted closer again and tentatively leaned against Chade's legs. He reported in the way he'd been taught, from the beginning and sparing nothing. "It was three years ago, or so, that I met the Fool. I was still living in the stables then. Burrich was busy, so I was playing with the pups..." He recalled the Fool's sudden visit with fondness. "I thought that he was simple, because he didn't say any words at all. It made it easier to talk to him though..." He smiled through the memory of the Fool's mockery of Regal... And he continued on and on. He detailed his fight with the children who'd been attacking his friend, and their misadventure riding one of the horses. He left out any mention of the Wit. He told Chade how the Fool had kept him company on his first night in the keep, and how the Fool would occasionally surprise him by appearing in the halls. The Fool had given him many little presents over the years, and he told the story behind each one. "Today he gave me a butterfly wing trapped in amber. It's very nice. That was after we'd put the handkerchiefs in the fountain, but before his speech. After that, we talked for a little while and we made plans to go for a ride tomorrow. We're going to meet at the postern gate in the evening. He kissed me, too, on the cheek, before he left." That concluded his report. It had taken a long time to tell Chade everything, and his throat was dry by the time he was done. Slink the Weasel had come to sit on his legs, and Fitz petted him. 

Chade sat quietly, considering the boy's words. At length he got up, poured a glass of cool water from a ewer in his work room and brought it to the boy. "Here," he said distractedly, pushing the goblet into his hands. He sat back down, staring at the fire. Fitz's story seemed innocent enough, but two things were bothering him about it: one, how long this friendship had gone on unbeknownst to him. Chade had eyes in every place of the castle except for two, and yet had never seen the Fool in Fitz's company; two, how attached the Fool seemed to be to his apprentice. He decided then that Fitz must have made some of it up. After all, he had never seen it, and the boy seemed to be conjuring up tales of what appeared to be courtship that boys at that age do... "I highly doubt that," he whispered.

Fitz took the goblet and drank deeply. He stared up at Chade from over the rim of the goblet and then reached up to set it on the side table, out of reach of Slink. "Master?" he asked, uncomprehending. 

Chade sighed. "You are mastering the art of untruth quickly, but I do not believe your story is quite as you tell it. Not unless you believe the Fool to be attempting to woo you." For himself, he discounted the possibility immediately, and added a small chuckle to the end of his words to convince Fitz of the ridiculousness of that idea.

Fitz blushed. "But, I told the truth! I did. We've been friends for years. He's my only friend." 

Chade regarded Fitz with fresh eyes. "Really?" he said, reviewing the facts again. "I shall have to speak to King Shrewd about that," he mumbled, wondering just what sort of trick the Fool was up to. He had no intention of terminating the friendship, unless these affections proved to have an underlying malevolence. If they were genuine, Chade would leave Fitz to deal with that himself. 

Fitz looked away. "He isn't in any trouble, is he?" 

"I don't know," said Chade honestly. It was the first time he had said that in front of the boy. "I hope not." Fitz really did seem attached to the Fool, and he would hate for that to be taken from him

Shoulders slumping, Fitz looked down at the dusty floor. "Can you... Would you talk to King Shrewd so that he won't be upset?" He wasn't sure what exactly why befriending him would bring trouble down on the Fool's head, but he accepted it as truth. Any other keep children had learned to stay away from him eventually, and he had not forgotten Nosy.

"At this point, boy, it all depends on the Fool." He looked down and tried to offer Fitz a kindly smile. "I did not wish to alarm you, my lad, but these are dark times. No one can be too careful, not even you. Now, I've a challenge for you."

 

_     “Never have I hidden my affections towards my Catalyst. Part of this can be attributed to how young we were when we connected, and the rest is due, I imagine, to my aversion to falsehood. The most I am and ever have been comfortable with is a contortion of the truth, but even bending the expression of my love for Fitz would produce the same result. It is a feeling so pure that not even half-truths can contaminate it. Those with the capacity to observe the unconventional saw my feelings, that I do not doubt. King Shrewd knew, in his way, and Chade became conscious of it immediately. In later years, it was Starling the Minstrel who first picked up on it, followed by Queen Kettricken and the scholar Kettle. In fact, Fitz may be the only one to whom it was not obvious, but I will take some blame for that. _

_     “Nor have I ever denied my feelings; I would have to lie to do this, and I fear I would not be very convincing. As the adage goes: actions speak louder than words. _

_     “On the contrary, I have always tried to hide my fear. At this too, I have failed. Queen Desire and Prince Regal were ever-present threats in my childhood, as were the Keep children. When faced with them, I did what most children would--cowered or ran. It was only in Fitz’s company that I was able to stand up to any of them, though I am eternally grateful that he never had to endure Queen Desire’s wrath with me. As an adult, my fear is expressed through uncharacteristic silence. This is somewhat an improvement, but still remains blindingly obvious to anyone who knows me well.” _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	7. On Commencement and Companionship - Assault

_      Trained as an assassin, I knew that one day, I would have to kill. That ending of life would always be at the king’s command and for the good of the kingdom--never for myself. That would be murder. Nevertheless, my first kill came long before any order. I had expected to feel revulsion, fear, and remorse on the day that I would take my first life. Instead, I felt nothing at all. On later occasions, I would finally experience that sickness of heart that comes with ending an existence. At the time, I had no words to articulate why my first had been different. I understand it now, but in the days immediately afterward, I had to wonder if there wasn’t something broken and evil inside of me that caused the Fool to look at me with such fear in his eyes. _

_     The loss of the Fool nearly broke me then, because at the time I had been sure that I would lose everything I’d come to love. It also cemented my shame regarding my darker training, and so I began to think of that part of me as something separate-- something necessary, but disgusting. To this day, I still feel an odd disconnection between the man grown from Chade’s apprentice and the man who’d once been Newboy. _

 

The Fool was up at dawn, as always, but he almost wished he could sleep through the entire morning, and the afternoon as well. Nothing mattered to him that day except his impending ride with Fitz. Despite the misfortunes they had suffered during the last one, the Fool found that it was the companionship and not the activity he cared for. He arrived at the postern gate hours before their destined time and simply lay in the grass, staring at the clouds. His hands busied themselves by braiding strands of grass together

    Fitz could not remember how he had gotten back to his bed, nor could he be sure that he had slept. His mind circled uselessly, but the end result was always the same: he could not break his vow to King Shrewd, and so he would lose Chade. If he lost Chade, he would be of no use to King Shrewd. Every time his mind returned to those awful conclusions, he felt ill. The tiny world he had begun to find his place in was crumbling beneath him. The future he had begun to envision for himself shattered too, and he found himself reeling. Without those simple things to tether himself to the world, he began to feel quite unreal. The fog that came with that detachment was welcome, because it dulled the needle-point of his agony and left him feeling oddly hollow inside. There was nothing he could do. The sun rose, and he was dimly aware that he was meant to meet Burrich at the stables, but his body was very far away and he could not quite manage to make it move. He did not care enough to be alarmed about that. He stared as the sunlight from his window moved along the wall, and eventually his gaze came to rest on the trinkets that the Fool had brought him. That was right. He was supposed to meet the Fool. The day before felt like it had been a dream. Not sure if he were early or late, Fitz felt himself rise out of his bed and dress. With every movement, he came back to himself a bit more. And then his despair and anxiety would return, and the fog would take it all away. He picked up the piece of amber and looked at it, turning it in his fingers. He squeezed, but could not feel it. He set the amber back down, and then went outside. The Fool would be waiting, and the Fool was his only tether to the world just then. The Fool who had always forgiven him when he made a mistake, been there when he was upset, and made him feel important in a way he never had before. 

    Somehow Fitz made it to the postern gate, with a bundle of food and with Sooty tacked and ready. He had been dimly aware of Burrich scolding him, but the words hadn't sunk in. When he caught sight of the Fool, he could not be sure if he were awake or dreaming. He knew that he ought to be glad to see his friend, but that was lost in the fog as well.

    Even from twenty feet away, the Fool sensed something was wrong. It was as obvious as a root in his back and as subtle as a foul smell on the wind. He sat up, his ears pounding with the beating of his heart. He could see it in the way the boy walked: the set of his shoulders, the hang of his head. Something that did not belong to either of them tugged the Fool to his feet and sent him sprinting towards Fitz, as if there was an invisible thread between them drawing them tighter together with each beating of their hearts. When he reached his friend, he nearly cried in despair for the pain that washed over him. It was worse than when Fitz had been speaking of his puppy friend. Too desperate to be tentative, one of the Fool's hands clamped onto Fitz's shoulder while he laid the other palm against the boy's cheek. "Fitz?" he asked.

    Fitz blinked at the Fool, and it took a moment for the word to make sense. "Fool?"

    "Fitz!" the Fool repeated, this time with more hope in his voice, and some desperate joy that his friend had recognized him. "What happened?"

    Fitz's expression shuttered and he swallowed. "Nothing," he answered, dully. He was lying again, but the Fool would not leave Buckkeep. He would stay with King Shrewd. Fitz might never see him again. It did not matter if he lied. Oh, but he could not bear to lose the Fool. "I don't want to talk about it," he amended. If this were their last adventure, he did not want to spoil it. He blinked and looked at the Fool properly this time. He mirrored the Fool's position, touching the other boy's cheek lightly. "Did someone hurt you?"

    The Fool knew that whatever it was, it must have cut Fitz to the bone for him to react so. "Yes," he answered bluntly, "but I don't want to talk about it. It seems we both have injuries we would rather forget." He glanced from Fitz's eyes to the horse. She was smaller than the last one, not as intimidating. "Let us ride."

    Fitz accepted the Fool's response and looked at Sooty. "Do you want me to help you up?" 

    "No, thank you," the Fool replied, hoisting himself up onto the horse. "Should I sit in the back this time?" he asked. "So that I don't make you fall off again?"

     "Either way is fine," Fitz replied, unable to bring himself to laugh at the joke.

    There was something very wrong with Fitz indeed, if that was all the response the Fool could stir from him. "Sit in front," he bade his friend gently. "I'll hold onto you." What he meant was,  _ I'll hold you, so it hurts less. _

    Fitz got his foot into the stirrup and pulled himself up, careful not to jostle the Fool, who wrapped his arms around Fitz's middle and laid his uninjured cheek against his back. He took up the reins and nudged Sooty into motion. Some part of him was telling him that he should ask the Fool who had hurt him, demand to know so that he could make them pay for it, but that part was small and easily swallowed up by the dark numbness. He was much better at riding now than he had been the first time they had ridden together. He said nothing as he guided Sooty out the gate and toward the woods that Prince Verity liked to use for hunting.

    The Fool felt his friend breathing, but there seemed to be nothing beneath that. It was as if he was empty and a distant wind was making his body expand and contract.. "Fitz?" he said quietly.

    "Yes, Fool?" Fitz responded without thought. 

    "Whatever happened, I don't want you to be alone," he said. "Please know that I care for you very much."

    Fitz's heart clenched. He heard the words, but they were dangerous. If he accepted them, they could be taken away. Alone was exactly what he was. But this was the Fool. He exhaled, and then drew a shaking breath, his hands tight around the reins. He wanted not to be alone. He wanted to believe the Fool's words. He could not. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to stop them from hurting you, Fool," he offered instead, and he truly was. The Fool did not deserve to be hurt.

    "Things would have gone badly for you if you were," the Fool said quietly, his words swallowed up by the air that flew past them as they cut through it. He sighed, but tried to relax. The ride was smoother than their first one had been, but the Fool found that the only relief it brought him was the soothing cool breeze against his injured cheek. He despaired that he was not enjoying this. Not with his friend so hurt. Fitz took them into the woods, following a well-used trail. The air was cool and fragrant with the scent of pine and the earthy scent of loam. The dappled light was soft and sent shadows dancing when the wind stirred the leaves. 

    "Are you sure that you don't want to run away?" Fitz ventured.

    Of course the Fool wanted to. If Fitz was with him, then there was truly nothing left for him at Buckkeep. "I swore," said the Fool. "And so did you. I saw you."

    "I know," Fitz said, an odd tone to his voice. He released the reins with one hand to finger the pin in his shirt collar. "I swore to King Shrewd. We have a bargain." And that was that. It would be as disloyal to steal from the King as it would be to leave. If they fled, they would probably be executed. He would probably be executed anyway. A bastard must either be made useful or killed. He was useless without Chade's training.

    The Fool felt that Fitz was missing the point. "But I swore too," he repeated, louder this time. "That means I am going to be at Buckkeep for as long as the King needs me." They would be together no matter what.

    Fitz tried not to feel bitter about that. "I know that," he said simply. He urged Sooty to go a bit faster, but then reined her to a gentle halt when they reached a clearing. It was objectively lovely, even if he could feel no particular feeling about it. The Fool would like it, he thought. 

    Almost before they had halted, the Fool slid from the horse's back. He turned in a slow circle, taking in the full sight of the clearing and inhaling the deep scent of the forest. His eyes seemed brighter when he looked up at Fitz. "This is better than the garden," he remarked.

    Fitz dismounted as well, but held Sooty by her reins so that she wouldn't wander. He watched the Fool's enjoyment and tried to offer the boy a small smile. He was not sure how well it worked.

    Hoping to nudge some measure of conversation from him, the Fool took Fitz's hand. "How did you find it?" he asked.

    "It was an accident." Fitz said. He knew that he was being unfair to the Fool, though, and so he added: "It's nice, isn't it? I'm glad that we found it. We'll have to come here again some time."

    "You mean, you've never been here before?" The Fool smiled. "Since I haven't either, that makes it our--" He looked over his shoulder with a gasp as he stepped closer to Fitz. "What was that noise?"

    The shock woke Fitz partly out of his dreamlike state, and he quested out, but could feel nothing with his Wit sense. "A branch falling?" he guessed.

    The Fool shook his head quickly, his brow furrowed. "I thought I heard something breathing." He turned fearful eyes on his friend. "What if it's a wolf?"

    "I don't feel anything," Fitz answered, frowning. He felt for one of his hidden daggers. Chade had been getting him used to carrying them and pulling them out when prompted. 

    "You mean with your magic?" The Fool relaxed a little, convinced that perhaps it was not a wolf after all. He drew breath to speak again when a louder noise, a crack this time, made him jump. "Fitz..." he pointed to the shape of a man through the trees.

    Fitz stared, frozen in shock. It had to be a dream. He quested out again, but all he felt from the man shaped  _ thing _ was emptiness. It made no sense. His heart began to race, and then the fear registered deep in his gut. Whatever this was, it was unnatural.

    The thing--Fitz couldn't bring himself to think of it as a man at all--shambled toward them with a hungry look in its eyes. It wore simple homespun, but it was dirty. Fitz could smell it from where it stood. The thing gave no greeting, as a person might have done, but it made without hesitation for the boys and their horse. Fitz's eyes saw a man, but he felt it to be a thing, and he was afraid. Fitz looked to its hand and saw that it carried a cudgel. It was too close for them to both have time to mount. "Fool, get up onto Sooty!" He pushed the other boy toward her left side.

    The Fool was still holding onto Fitz's hand, and he tugged the other boy with him. He knew they would not both get up in time, but there was no way he was leaving Fitz on the ground to face this thing alone. Instead of mounting, he picked up a stone and threw it. "Stay away!" he yelled. Having no Wit-sense, this was just a man to him. "We are King's Men, you wouldn't dare!"

    Fitz did not think that reasoning with this thing was reasonable. He looked at the Fool in alarm and then settled for trying to shove the smaller boy behind him. Time was up, and horses were valuable. He let go of the reins and gave Sooty a swat on the rear along with a warning through his Wit-sense to flee. His knife appeared in his hand with a well-practiced movement.

    The Fool gasped at the horse ran, and reached after her with a cry. She was gone, though, and the Fool bent to try to find more rocks, or sticks, or anything to slow the man down. "Fitz! Run!" He could throw as they fled.

    Fitz was very much not interested in running. Not without the Fool. He was not sure if he had anything to run back to, and the Fool was the last good thing he had. And suddenly he was angry. Furious at the intruder in a way that overshadowed his terror.

    Holding his projectiles against his body with one arm, the Fool tugged Fitz out of the way. The man was slow, but it would only take one hit to end either one of them. "Come on, we need to run!" he cried in frustration. Why would he not go?

    The thing struck at the two boys with a sweep of his cudgel, but Fitz staggered out of the way as the Fool pulled him, his eyes trained on their adversary. The man was abhorrent to his Wit, and a danger to them physically. He was a threat. With an animalistic snarl, he lunged forward with his blade, getting inside of the thing's reach. He aimed for the space between the ribs that Chade had taught him about. He had practiced on a stuffed man made of straw and sacking, but this was different. His blade slid off, lacking sufficient force and aim. The Fool dropped his rocks, fully prepared to pull his friend out of the fray. Even as he approached, however, he knew that he would be able to get in to extract him. He settled for calling his name, but the other boy could not seem to hear him.

    As it had with the Keep children, Fitz’s fear and anger drove him without conscious thought. He attacked viciously, and when he lost his knife, he pulled another from his boot and kept going. All of his helplessness had found a way to be channelled into action, and he tore at the man with blade and teeth. He was much more efficient this time, though. A benefit of his training. He knew where to aim. He ended him when his blade tore into the man's throat, exactly where he'd been taught. It was a messy kill. Blood spouted and gurgled from the wound in a horrific display.

    As the blood spurted from the man's throat, the Fool let out a strangled cry and his hands came to cover his mouth. He felt sick, but he could not tear his eyes away from the scene. The dying man staggered and fell, twitching and flailing as the life drained from him. Fitz could not tell by his Wit sense that he had succeeded in killing him, but it became fairly obvious when it was done. He stepped out of the way and watched dispassionately. It was hard to feel anything about killing a man who didn't feel alive, and so the reality of the situation had yet to catch up with him. He looked at his boot knife. His tunic was already dirtied, and so he wiped the blade off on the edge.

    The Fool had dropped to his knees, staring at the man as he went down. He was frozen, but his entire body was trembling in fear and shock. He could not bring himself to speak to Fitz, simply watched the man in the hopes of seeing some movement. It was irrational, since he had wanted to kill them, but they could still run.

    Fitz was satisfied when the man finally went still, and as his world widened again he turned. The Fool was on the ground, and Fitz frowned when he noticed. He knelt in front of the Fool and reached out to touch his shoulder. "Fool? Are you alright?"

    The Fool's reaction was instantaneous. He scrabbled backwards as he saw Fitz's blood-drenched hand try to touch him, ending up sitting on his rear a few feet away and staring at the other boy. The whites were visible all around his eyes and his breathing came rapid and shallow, like a panicked rabbit.

    Fitz withdrew his hand and gentled his tone, remembering how Burrich would talk to a frightened horse. "You're alright. He can't hurt us now. Everything's fine."

    It was not the man that the Fool was worried about. His gaze jumped erratically from the corpse to Fitz's hand, to his knife, and to his face.

    Fitz followed the Fool's gaze and frowned. "I... I won't hurt you either," he said, hardly believing that it needed saying. Surely the Fool could not be frightened of him. Could he? The thought hurt, and he recalled Burrich's reaction the time he had discovered Fitz with blood on his lips and clothes. He very slowly and deliberately secreted his knife back into its hidden sheath.

    The Fool finally found his voice, but it was high and cracked as he spoke. "Y-you...you killed him!" he exclaimed. Saying aloud made it true, and a small sob came out of him. "You killed him, he was a real person and you killed him."

    "That wasn't a person," Fitz said, glancing back at the body and shuddering at the thought of the emptiness he had felt there in place of life. "I don't know what it was, but it wasn't a person. It was...I don't know how to explain it." He was not addressing the issue, either. He held his empty hands out again, palm up. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said, and the words came out pleadingly rather than comfortingly.

    The Fool squirmed ever further away from him and scrambled to his feet. "Don't touch me!" he pleaded, tears flowing freely. The Fool had no reservations about crying, but he could scarcely believe that it was Fitz who was causing his tears. The Fool had only ever felt the goodness and warmth his Catalyst possessed, and this was wrong.

    Fitz withdrew his hands again, hunching his shoulders and curling into himself. His hands made fists and he looked down at them. His lips pressed together, holding back not words but feeling. He wanted to disobey. He wanted to touch the Fool again and again to show him that it would be fine, but the naked fear and upset on the Fool's face stopped him. He took a short breath and exhaled. He did not know what to do. He stood to go look at the body again, and he memorized the details that he could see before remembering that Chade might never ask him to report to him again. He kept on looking, though, because it was easier to look at the body than to look at the tears he had put on his friend's face. The body almost felt more natural now that it had died, like it could have been a person once.

    The Fool could tell how much he had hurt the other boy, but he could not bring himself to reach out again. "I-I-I have to go..." he whispered. He knew it was best to get out of there before he got sick, or before he had to see that look on his Catalyst's face again. "Go home," he told him. They would talk later, they had to, but he could not do it right now.

    Fitz dug his nails into his palms, but bent to examine the body nonetheless. The hands had calluses, but the muscles did not seem like those of a farmer. Carpenter, perhaps. Had he only imagined horrible emptiness? At the Fool's words, he bowed his head. What home, he wanted to demand. He wanted to break something. He wanted to cry. He wanted to tell the Fool about oaths, missions, and assassins. This was what he was now. No good to anyone apparently. He took a breath. "Be careful. There might be more bad people in the woods."

    The Fool turned and ran through the woods, back the way they had come on the horse. He was fleet of foot and he was panicked, so it did not take him long to get home. So stricken was he that he did not even report to King Shrewd, but climbed straight to his room and locked the door.

    Fitz stayed in the woods for a time, sitting with the body while it cooled and loosed its bowels, and stared sightlessly at the trees. Some scavenger birds came to investigate, and Fitz paid them no mind. He felt numb, and he wondered if that was the sort of emptiness the man had felt before he died. The idea frightened him and eventually he got up and found a stream to wash himself and his tunic in, so that he would not alarm anyone at the Keep. He walked back, and hoped that Sooty had found her way to the stables.

 

    Burrich had been alerted by the sound of errant hooves, and he had been around horses long enough to recognize the tone of a panicked horse when he heard it. He had turned to see Sooty, Fitz's new horse, charging back towards the stables in fear. Catching her bridal, he had spoken soothingly to her and led her back inside. After cleaning her up, he had gone to look for Fitz and eventually found him trudging up the road. Planting his feet, he crossed his arms and stared the boy down.

    Fitz was still a bit soggy, and he looked up at Burrich not much caring whether he were in trouble or not. He knew that horses were above people in Burrich's esteem, and he would not have been at all surprised if Burrich took his hide off for the offence of letting her run off. "Sorry, sir," Fitz said. "I forgot to tie her properly when I stopped. I'll groom and feed her, and I can clean out the stalls if you want me to."

    Well, at least the boy didn't try to dodge his responsibility. Burrich advanced on Fitz and grabbed him by the back of the collar like a puppy. "Come on. I took care of her for you, but she was scared half to death." He made sure to give him a good shake. "What were you doing?"

    "Fell in the stream," Fitz improvised dully. "I was climbing and a branch broke, so the noise must have startled her." He hoped he would have no more questions.

    "Mhm," grunted Burrich, completely disbelievingly. He really did not care what Fitz had been doing at the moment; it just mattered that the horse was safe and the boy was fine. Burrich could sense no Wit coming from him. "Get out here an hour early tomorrow."

    Fitz nodded and took the words as a dismissal. He had gotten off lucky, but he could not feel even relief over that. A busy task in the stables would have been welcome, because when he got himself to his chamber the silence gave his mind room to work. As the daylight faded, he wondered if Chade would summon him. The prospect filled his belly with dread. Would it be better or worse to be summoned and have to refuse Chade's order? If the secret passage did not open, would it ever open for him again? He did not know.

 

    King Shrewd sent a page to summon his Fool. He had had a day of rare quiet that he had used to his advantage, and he did not blame the Fool for his retreat after the way Desire had behaved the night before. Abominable. The woman was unreasonable at the best of times. Still, he had spoken with Chade and now had questions. He felt confident of the Fool's loyalty, but one could never be too sure.

    The Fool did not feel one bit of guilt in ignoring the knock on his door. Not the first time, not the second time, and not the third time. He had just witnessed something that he now firmly believed no one should ever have to see. His eyes were screwed shut and his face was pressed into his pillow. It was only at the page's hesitant: "The King summons you, Fool!" that the Fool rose from his bed. He wiped the tears from his face with his sleeve and shuffled to the door, not even bothering to check the looking glass. As he pulled the door open, he remarked: "You ought to have said that from the start." Before the page could get a clear glimpse of his room, he had sidled out and shut the door, moving past the page down the stairs to make his way to Shrewd's chambers. His back and knees were still dirty from scrabbling along the ground, but the King could make of that what he would. Without a shred of his usual optimism, the Fool came to quiet halt at the threshold of the King's solar. "King Shrewd? I report."

    Shrewd studied his Fool with some measure of surprise. The unnaturally white eyes were red-rimmed, and he was dishevelled in a way that was at odds with a normally meticulous character. Some might have scoffed at the idea of a king paying such attention to the habits of a lowly servant, but Shrewd saw the wisdom in it. He ought to know those closest to him, no matter what their rank. He wondered if his wife had sought some petty revenge. "Has anyone been giving you trouble?" he asked, neither sharply nor gently, but directly.

    "Do you wish me to report my troubles, sir?" the Fool asked with uncharacteristic sharpness. "I assure you, they will both waste your night and provide you with little insight into those matters that you so deeply care for." His tone was not disrespectful, but it was a far cry from how he usually spoke

    Shrewd frowned over the Fool's tone and wondered whether or not he should pursue the matter. He weighed his words carefully. "I will be the judge of whether or not a matter is a waste of my time," he said, not unkindly. If he commanded the Fool to speak, he might damage that loyalty and affection he sought to nurture in the Fool. Loyalty could be bought, and loyalty could be earned. Like a hound, the Fool responded best to a gentle hand. He wondered how he would respond to a kick. Would he turn and bite, or would he cower with his belly up? It was not the day to test that. "As for the matters I care about," he continued, "you will find that I care very deeply where all of my subjects are concerned. I invite you to speak, but you will not be punished if you refuse."

    That was a far kinder response than the Fool had expected from his King. Feeling guilty already, and out of the long habit of telling Shrewd everything he knew, the Fool nodded and reported, again fixing his eyes on the spot just past the King's head. "FitzChivalry and I went for a ride today, merely a jaunt into the woods. We met a man who seemed hostile, and my unkempt appearance is due to our struggle with him." It was not a lie, but neither was it the whole truth.

    The King nodded, taking his time to absorb the information. A king was allowed to take as much time as he liked to think about things, in theory. In practice, such opportunities were rare. It was fortuitous that the Fool's answer provided him with a ready transition into his own concerns. "It's fortunate indeed that you escaped mostly unharmed," Shrewd said. He did not say whether he was pleased by that, but his grandfatherly tone suggested that he might be. "Two children alone against a grown man. I will have the guard notified to be more vigilant against ruffians on the roads. You are continuing your acquaintance with FitzChivalry, then? A shadow told me that you had grown quite close."

    "He was not on the road, sir," said the Fool, wondering if Shrewd was even listening to him. "He was in the forest." He paused at Shrewd's other question. He knew the shadow was the mysterious man that he had apparently met before, and he knew that that man was supposed to be teaching Fitz something, though he had never seen the boy with someone new. Either way, it gave him a strange pride to know that Fitz spoke of him to the man. "I am," he replied. "We are as close as anyone can be, my King. I care for him a great deal."

    King Shrewd raised his eyebrows at the correction, having been envisioning one of the forest roads that trappers and travellers used, but said nothing more on that matter. "I've spoken with the boy several times, and he has always been unfailingly polite. Tell me what you think of his character."

    The Fool had done just that when the King had first found out about their friendship, but that had been some time ago. "I...I think he is very loyal, sir." He was hesitant because of what he had just witnessed, but he knew his friend too well to let it have bearing for long. "He's quite intelligent, and he's wonderful with the animals. He knows how to sit a horse like a soldier already." As he spoke, a slow colour suffused the Fool's cheeks. On a normal child it might have gone unnoticed, but even the slightest pink was visible against his pale skin. "He knows how to have fun, too, and he is very good at keeping secrets. I bring him gifts sometimes, and the last time I visited his chambers he had them all on display. Because of this, I know he is true of heart." He realized that his gaze had strayed to his feet, where he was dragging one toe against the floor. He hastily looked back up at the proper spot. "So far as I have seen, sir," he corrected himself.

    Shrewd nodded again. "Thank you, Fool. I see so much of what he wants me to see that it's refreshing to have an outside opinion." Chade had given him his own, of course, but this was more about the Fool than it was about FitzChivalry. The Fool's response was heartfelt, that Shrewd was confident in. He dared say that the Fool was as close to passionate as he had ever seen the strange child. He nodded to himself again. Perhaps his grandson had won for himself what Shrewd had been carefully tending. He would need to keep an eye on that. "Do not be surprised when I ask you again, Fool. Of course, with your gift, you may already know that I plan to." He gave the Fool a small smile. "I am interested in the wellbeing of my family."

    "There is much more I could tell you of him, if you wished, sir," the Fool responded. Speaking of Fitz's qualities had somewhat lessened his aversion to his act in the forest, and he felt he could go on indefinitely. Indeed, his friend was the one thing he would not tire of discussing.

    Did Shrewd want to hear what the Fool had to say? He considered the offer, which was in itself telling. Passionate indeed. Chivalry's bastard had won himself a devoted friend. If he were smart, he would try to make use of the Fool's talents much in the same way that Shrewd did. If the boy were ambitious enough, he could use that information to attempt to win the throne. Shrewd did not regret the little test he had devised. A bastard was a dangerous thing. Shrewd smiled indulgently at the Fool. "Go on, then."

    "Fitz has shown me many places, sir," the Fool said. "Near the beginning of our friendship, he showed me a place where the water was so close I could almost touch it." This again was the beach, but the Fool still did not think Shrewd would appreciate it if he knew the Fool had left the Keep. "And he seems to take an interest in my rabbits. Well, they are not mine, but I found them. I made them a garden, and Fitz liked it. He tried to talk to them, the rabbits that is, but they ran away. And once, after Prince Regal had given me some trouble, Fitz gave me a hug. He bade me stay with him his first night in the Keep, but only because of the tapestry in his room. The Elderling in it frightens him, which is funny because I once convinced him that I was an Elderling." He giggled, and once he heard that sound escape him he realized just how foolish he sounded. Abruptly the blood left his cheeks and he clamped his lips shut, staring demurely at the floor.

    The King watched his Fool with fond curiosity and kept his expression reflective of only that. It was the most genuinely expressive he had seen the Fool, who often alternated between carefully polite and dramatically outrageous. Again, he found himself surprised at the amount of devotion the bastard had managed to inspire in the Fool. He paid only the amount of attention necessary to the details of the Fool's narrative, but he made sure to nod and smile in the proper places. This was interesting. He could certainly make use of the bastard's apparent kind nature on certain diplomatic missions, but again he worried over the dangers. If he had half of Chivalry's ability to win the love of the people, he could be a serious threat. "It sounds as though you've found yourself a fine friend," Shrewd commented. "Thank you for indulging an old man with some tales about his grandson."

    Before he could stop himself, the Fool said: "I think he's lonely." He paused, but decided that it was too late to simply stop speaking. "He has me, that is true, but I seem to be his only friend. My King, since he truly is family, perhaps you could invite him to eat with you? The way you do with Prince Verity and Prince Regal." The Fool was not yet mature enough to understand the political implications of a bastard.

    King Shrewd smiled at the Fool. "A kind thought, Fool. In a few days time, I think I'll invite him to join me for tea."

    "I think he would very much like that, sir." In this, perhaps the Fool did not know Fitz as well as he thought

    "Good. You're dismissed, Fool." Shrewd had gotten what he needed, and he would take some time to mull everything over.

    The Fool bowed to the King and left, in a much better mood than the one in which he had arrived. He asked some servants to help him carry water to his chambers, and then took a bath. This improved his mood even further, and he was able to attend dinner that night. He only hoped he would not encounter Fitz. He still needed some time on that front.

 

    Fitz did not attend dinner, and the secret passageway did not open. He lay in his bed and stared until the room was cast into darkness, and he could not muster the energy to light a candle. He stared some more, seeing the fallen body and the Fool's terrified eyes staring back at him from the shadows. No draught, and no prickling on his Wit sense came to alert him to Chade's summons, and his uncertainty and anxiety turned to despair. Chade had forsaken him. Tossed him aside after making him into a killer. Even the Fool would not have him now. 

    He trudged through the next day, and the next with little memory of how he got from one task to the other. He went like a puppet at his tasks, clumsy and without thought, and took the scoldings and rebukes that his carelessness earned him. Even that much took effort, and he retreated each evening to his bed, too weary and anguished to move. He did not sleep, though. Not fully. He did not want to miss the draught that would signal the opening of the passageway, but it never came. 

    Burrich at last had enough of his listlessness and, in a surprising show of concern, did his best to rid him of whatever ailed him. For the stablemaster, that meant a de-worming tonic, a pup, and alcohol. Fitz barely remembered that night, but he remembered crying for a mother that never came, and the smell of Chade whose voice he heard arguing with some unknown spectre. Burrich's remedy had worked, somewhat, and when King Shrewd summoned Fitz to his quarters three days later, Fitz heeded his summons.

 

_     “Violence has always repulsed me. Even though I was a supporter of Prince Verity’s martial measures concerning the Red Ship Raiders, that was a necessary method. As well, I was detached from it. Personally, I have never even been able to kill a spider that somehow found its way into my bedding. _

_     “The first human death I saw shocked me to the point of tears and solidified my passive nature within me. I would much rather run than kill, and the only times I have ever chosen to fight were for my Catalyst’s benefit. He did not run that day, however, and I nearly could not look him in the eyes after he ended his victim’s life. _

_    “In both a childish and amorous manner, I forgave Fitz rather quickly for the action. I knew he had been trained for such destruction, and besides that I wanted to see him do no wrong. I looked past the incident, convincing myself for the longest time that it had been necessary, and afterwards that it had to have been right, because I believed him incapable of wickedness. I can admit now that what he did was wrong, and I maintain to this day that flight would have been the better course. _

_     “I sometimes find myself wondering what sort of person I would have become if an aversion to bloodshed had not been imprinted on me. _

_     “Despite the morally inferior actions he both chose and was forced to do, however, my love for him never wanes. This is how I know it is true, and not the childish fancy as which I have heard it dismissed.” _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	8. On Commencement and Companionship - Severance

_     To this day, I cannot look at a fruit knife without recalling in some way, that awful time.  _

 

The Fool had gone down for his morning report to Shrewd, but the King was distracted by a knock on the door. It was none other than Fitz, and suddenly the ample food on the King's table made sense. The Fool seated himself neatly by the hearth and observed the two. The King apparently forgot he was there, or else did not care, for he sent the servingman away but not the Fool. As far as the boy could see, this was exactly what he had suggested to Shrewd: a meeting between grandfather and grandson, simply for the sake of family. Fitz looked suspicious at first, but once he started on the food (served, surprisingly, by the King's own hand), he relaxed. 

The Fool had started nodding when a shift in conversation roused him. The King was speaking to Fitz of an apparently terrible idea he had had, while absolving another man of the same concept. The Fool furrowed his brow, but he knew better than to question any of it. He kept an eye on the conversation, however, simply to stifle his juvenile curiosity. Without warning his friend stood up, and the Fool thought perhaps the King had slighted him somehow. He was proven wrong a moment later when Fitz plucked a silver fruitknife from the table and slid it up his sleeve. It was unthinkable that he would do such a thing, and even more unthinkable that the King watched it happen and did not react. The Fool stood angrily, wondering just how far Fitz would go. Murder, and now theft from the King who provided for them both. "You can't do that!"

Fitz tensed, and the hand that had ghosted away the knife clenched into a fist. He stared at his friend, and there was that same darkness in his gaze that had been there the day of their ride. It was tinged with something else now, though. Something that burned. Fitz's eyes narrowed. Were they ex-friends now? He had not seen the Fool in days. Not since he'd terrified the other boy with the skills he'd learned at the King's behest. What he felt in that moment was so akin to hate that he dared not speak. He kept the blade tucked away and he turned to leave the room.

The dark gaze in Fitz's eyes terrified the Fool, but he could not let this incident rest. He glanced rapidly between Fitz and the King as the boy left the room, as if to see if Shrewd would do anything about it. When he did not, the Fool bolted after Fitz without dismissal or permission. "FitzChivalry!"

Head bowed, Fitz halted halfway to the stairway. "What is it, Fool?" 

The Fool waited until he had gotten within arm's reach of Fitz to speak. "Why would you do that?" he asked in genuine confusion.

Fitz refused to look at the Fool. It was difficult to articulate the betrayal he felt. Shrewd's test had been a cruel one. He had refused to betray the King, and his world had been destroyed. Then, when he was broken, Shrewd said that he would understand when he was older why it had been necessary. That he could take no chances. "Because I could not do it while he slept," Fitz answered, quietly. He had not been able to, and so he'd lost everything. 

"What?" The Fool dared a step closer, laying a hand on Fitz's arm. He had not thought about it, but it seemed natural. "What are you talking about? Just give it back."

"No. He knows that I have it."

"Of course he does," the Fool countered. "He saw you take it." That in itself should have been enough to satisfy him, but it was not. "I don't understand." He seemed to be thinking that a lot lately.

Fitz finally looked at the Fool. He could hardly understand it himself. He felt that the last few black days had taken something from him, but they had taught him something as well. They had taught him that anything could be taken from him, and they had taught him that sometimes he would throw them away himself, even if it killed him. "You're a King's Man," Fitz said. "Do you feel that you'd be disloyal if you didn't stop me?"

"Yes," said the Fool with conviction. "That's why I'm trying. You're a King's Man too, how could you steal from him?"

Fitz ignored the question. "What if I told you that I wouldn't be your friend if you stopped me?"

The Fool gasped, a world of hurt in his eyes. That wasn't fair. But his duty as Prophet was far more important than his oath to the King. He released the other boy's arm and stepped back.

Fitz saw the way his words had affected the Fool, and regretted them for a moment, but he had to make him understand. He shook his head. "But if you let me go, it would be treason. Shrewd might have you killed, or exiled, and then you'd never see me anyway."

The Fool did not enjoy this game one bit. "What is it that you want from me?" he asked, almost fearfully.

Fitz slid the knife from his sleeve with an easy flick of his wrist. He held it out on his palm. "You can take it," he offered.

The Fool stepped away from the knife as if it might burn him. "You won't be my friend then."

Fitz took a breath to continue, to tell the Fool that it would be treason if he didn't. A part of him wanted to know which the Fool would choose. Would his loyalty to King Shrewd win out? How readily would the Fool be rid of him? Almost immediately he felt sick with himself. He clenched his hand around the little knife and lowered his arm. He swallowed. "I'm sorry," Fitz said. He found himself blinking back tears. "I'm sorry, Fool. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. Please, please be my friend. I wouldn't ever make you choose. I swear it."

"You have to give it back on your own," the Fool concluded, a pleading cadence to his voice. "That's the only way. Please. Look. Since he saw you take it, maybe he won't be angry. Maybe he knew you would give it back." Keeping his eyes on Fitz, he moved down the hallway to the door of the King's chambers, but when he tried the handle he found it locked. He looked at Fitz in dismay.

Fitz shook his head. He wasn't sorry about taking the knife at all. He held it like a lifeline. "I'm not going to give it back." 

The Fool sighed. "Well...take it then. I will tell the King that I tried." His loyalty would be strained after this, he knew, but he would choose Fitz every time.

Fitz closed the distance between himself and the Fool. He took the boy's hand the way he would when they prepared to run, but he stood still, head bowed. "You don't have to tell him because he ordered me to take it, Fool. It was a test. He made me choose, and I..." His voice broke. He tried again. "I gave everything away."

"He told you to take it?" The Fool 's shoulders slumped. Somehow, that hurt more than anything. "He told you to take it, and you both knew that, but no one stopped me from making a--" He paused suddenly, tensing again. "Oh. I see. I've made a Fool of myself." He wanted to walk away then, but he found he could not. Not with his hand surrounded by the warmth of the other boy's.

"I'm sorry," Fitz said and tightened his grip on the Fool’s hand. "I'm sorry I made you choose. But that's not what I was trying to say. I wasn't testing you. You chose me, and I'm glad, I can't tell you how much, but that wasn't it at all. I just wanted you to understand." His shoulders slumped. It had been a mistake. He'd made it worse by attempting to explain without any mention of Chade. 

"But why did you not just tell me that it was the King's wishes?" He frowned. "Furthermore, why did the King not tell me this?"

Fitz shook his head. "He didn't know. I can't-... Someone important to me asked me to take something, anything, from King Shrewd without him knowing. I wouldn't do it, just like how you wouldn't let me leave with the knife. It wouldn't have been loyal. But I lost that important person, and I lost you too when I killed that man. Then at tea today, Shrewd told me that he'd known all along. That he'd planned it to test me. That's why I took the knife, Fool. I'm sorry that I hurt you." 

The Fool could only surmise that the someone important was the shadow man, whom he pinned the blame on whenever something mysterious happened. He dwelled on his point, however. "But nobody told me. If King Shrewd had simply told me to hold my peace, I would not have followed you out here."

Fitz shrugged helplessly. "Perhaps he was testing you too? But it was my fault for doing that."

The Fool sighed. "Well, I suppose it cannot be helped now." He was more confused than ever, and his head hurt, and he still did not know why even Fitz had not told him to hold his peace. It was not his place to question the King, however, and his friend would not tell him any more. That he was sure of.

"It's over," Fitz agreed. He released the Fool's hand and then looked at the knife. He turned it in his hand and then stepped around the Fool to the king's door. There he left the knife, planted heavily into the thick wood of the door. "I returned it," Fitz said by way of explanation. "You don't have to worry about your loyalty."

"Well," the Fool remarked. "I must admit, I was afraid you intended to kill a man with it." With the current loyalty crisis passed, the Fool again recalled the reason he had been avoiding Fitz in the first place. His words were sharp, and he used the tone he usually reserved for mockery. In other words, it was the deepest slight he could conceive.

Fitz looked at the Fool again. "I have other tools for that," he said bluntly.

The Fool did not expect such a remark. He blinked at Fitz and copied his tone, almost eerily accurate. "I know."

Fitz wondered how much the Fool did know, and then decided that it was probably not much. "Does that bother you?" 

"Of course it does," the Fool replied.

Fitz flinched, even though he'd expected it. "He was attacking us."

"You killed him." And it killed the Fool to argue with Fitz, but it had to be done.

“That's what I am now, Fool. I- Perhaps I didn't have to, but I was afraid and I knew how. That man, he- There was something wrong about him."

"We could have run," the Fool protested, more emotion creeping into his voice. "I said we should run."

"This is what I am," he repeated. "I'm sorry that I scared you, and I know we could have run, but we might not have made it."

"Next time," said the Fool, who was confident that they would end up in another possibly fatal situation, "we run."

The fight had gone out of him long ago, and Fitz did not know what to do to fix the broken mess of their friendship that lay between them. He was afraid that if he tried to piece it together again, it would turn into an ugly shape. "Will you hate me if I kill people, Fool?"

The Fool considered that for a very long time. Almost when it seemed he was not going to answer, he said: "Fitz, it is impossible for me to hate you."

"Will you hate not hating me?" Fitz felt that it was an important point.

"No," the Fool answered. "Fitz, there are some things that neither of us understand, but please know that no matter what you do or who you become, I will always be your friend." He worried at his lip. That was the clearest things were going to get, and he hoped there would be no further questions, for he would be unable to provide the answers.

Fitz nodded and shut his eyes, leaning back against the door. He was tired. The last few days had eaten something out of his soul. "I'll always be your friend too, Fool. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I made you choose. I'm sorry that I'm going to kill people." Even now, he had several weapons concealed on his person. A packet of poison, too. They felt heavy. 

The Fool "Do you have to?" the Fool asked, though even without the gift of Prophecy he knew the answer.

"Yes. Not for myself. I won't... If something happens like that again, I'll try not to."

"At least tell me this, Fitz, and tell me truly." Taking a deep breath, the Fool took Fitz's shoulders and looked into his eyes with a Prophet's wisdom. "Do you enjoy it?"

"Of course I don't," Fitz opened his eyes to look back at the Fool. Was that what he'd thought all this time?

The sigh the Fool let out was the sweetest relief he had ever known, and he even dared to give Fitz one of his old smiles. "Good."

Fitz didn't feel he'd deserved the smile, and he couldn't bring himself to return it but he did pull the Fool closer, closing his arms around him in an embrace. He'd almost destroyed their friendship, and he hated himself for it even as he rejoiced at having the other boy back.

The Fool relaxed into Fitz's arms, his own coming up to hug the other boy back. He let his forehead drop onto his friend's shoulder and reveled in his warmth. He smelled like straw and herbs and something that was inherently just Fitz, and the Fool knew then that no matter what he did, he was still the same boy he had grown to love.

Fitz parted ways with the Fool, feeling simultaneously relieved and disgusted with himself. His anger at King Shrewd had faded, but the price had been that he'd passed his hurt and confusion on to the Fool who had done nothing to deserve it. Fitz vowed to himself that he would never be so cruel again. His tools for killing weighed heavily on him in their small, secret places. Only one knife was not for murder, and it was the mate to the one he'd returned to King Shrewd. It was a gift for Chade. The grief of the last few days had left a scar in him and he could not touch that place without feeling numb. It was over, though, even if every good thing of his had come away tarnished.

 

_     “Loyalty is a strange concept. It can be won by a deep and long relationship--in fact, the most unconditional loyalty comes from connections such as this. But a far more common brand of loyalty comes from the declaration by a figure of authority that someone beneath him now belongs to him. This does not need to be a single person, either: if a lone and wayward man is taken into shelter and saved by the residents of a certain land, he is often driven to declare his loyalty for the land and fight to protect it, even if the action that saved him was simply one of good will by a single citizen. _

_     “Perhaps this comes from the human desire to look to something higher than themselves for anything that they themselves cannot provide. Loyalties to deities can be formed when a person survives an attack or illness, and yet this was purely the result of luck. Truly, a person would be better off proclaiming his loyalty to the raider that did not attack him, or the medic that healed him, for these are the things that account for his survival, not the king or god which he serves. _

_     “With that being said, I too have fallen victim to this human tradition. It is true that King Shrewd took me in at my own request, but I had no reason to proclaim to him the loyalty that I did. I believe that loyalty should stem from respect and love, and I did not love King Shrewd because of my servitude to him, nor did he respect me because of the respect and insight I showed him. I grew from a blind follower to a devoted servant, and this was because I could see the good in the man. _

_     “In my opinion, the only people who deserve my full loyalty are those who also have my full love. I would lay down my life for them in an instant, yet this is not born of a contrived devotion to them. It is my honest heart, so long connected with theirs, and I can only hope that that connection moves both ways.” _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	9. On Commencement and Companionship - Mistidings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though we debated long and hard over this, we decided to re-write a scene that RH already provided us with. It does not change canon, merely adapts it to account for the Fool's presence. We try to avoid this in the future.

_      A lifetime. As a child, the idea of such a very long time was difficult to comprehend. Older now, I look back and wonder where all of the years of my life until now have gone. Little by little, time has slipped away from me. Years hence, I’m sure that I will still carry that same sentiment. The idea of a lifetime is less mysterious to me now, having seen many deaths and faced the prospect of my own more than once. It has a different meaning to me as well. Spending a lifetime with another person is not only a matter of time. It also means enduring all of life’s events together and becoming stronger for it.  _

_     I am lucky that the Fool and I seem to be doing just that. We have not always been together; we’ve spent two great lengths of time apart from one another. Nevertheless, when we reunited, it seemed to me that the Fool always slotted himself effortlessly back into my life and no matter how long it had been, it is was as though no time had passed at all. Despite the many hardships that we’ve both faced, our bond has only grown stronger. _

_     It has not yet been a lifetime, or has it? Both of us have cheated death. But how long is a lifetime, when I have felt the way that Verity lives on in his dragon, many years since he left our traditional idea of life? Or when I have seen a woman live on in the body of her Witpartner? Is it simply the number of years that a human can reasonably expect to live, or is it precisely the time it takes a particular individual to die? What, precisely, is death?  _

_     To think that our time together could be limited, even by such a frame as a lifetime, saddens me despite my knowledge that such things are inevitable. Worse is knowing that we have already grieved each other once. Though that has given me a great appreciation for the time that remains to us, I dread the thought of ever losing him. In my heart, I am greedy. My child-self was awed at the idea of a lifetime; now I long for an eternity. _

 

   The Fool did not seek Fitz out as much as he used to, but this was not entirely his own fault. They both had responsibilities, and those responsibilities were as different as could be, though both helped the kingdom run smoothly. The Fool eventually found out that the shadow man was an old assassin, that he had been the same man he had met from whom the King took counsel, and that it was him that was teaching Fitz. He learned his name--Chade--but nothing else about him. He never saw him around the Keep, only within the King’s chambers, so he supposed he was doing his job well. The Fool did not once broach this subject with Fitz. 

    Fitz, for his part, had resumed his old routine, and he made no more effort to explain what Shrewd's test had done to him. The fruitknife remained in Chade's mantlepiece, and Fitz sat at his feet, playing the marble game and relaying what information he could. The Fool he saw rarely, and that saddened him. Their already infrequent visits had dwindled, and Fitz could only blame himself after having hurt the Fool so deeply. Of course, his tasks at the keep kept him busy as well.

    When one day, Fedwren requested Fitz’s services and sent him off to Buckkeep town with a list and some silvers, he saw it as a relief. He was trekking toward the main gate, when his feet seemed to bring him to a halt of their own accord. Presently, the Fool was sitting there, entertaining the soldiers with tales (which kept up morale) and offering a hearty welcome to those that were entering the Keep on either royal or trade business. If they entered with a good disposition, that made the King's job all the easier.

    But Fitz was not sure how to react. In their brief meetings, they had both made their attempts to continue on as they had been, but things had been different nevertheless. Fitz did not laugh quite as much as he used to, and he made no attempts to talk of anything personal. That was a dangerous thing for both of them, he decided. Better to stay silent. He wondered how he should greet the Fool when he passed. Truthfully he missed the boy, and he missed the days of their easy companionship. Mustering up his courage, he approached.

    "Fitz!" the Fool exclaimed, leaping to his feet. His heart filled with exultation upon seeing the other boy. He was smiling widely as he addressed the guards. "Good guardians of the gate, you must not let this boy leave! Lest the Keep's greatest treasure will have departed and you will find many less visitors come to call." He tipped Fitz a wink.

    Fitz blushed at the Fool's exuberant attention and fumbled for words for a moment, before settling on offering the Fool a small smile. "Are you busy, Fool? Fedwren gave me some errands to run, and I wondered if you might like to come with me?" He showed the Fool his list as proof. 

    The Fool looked between Fitz and the guards. "I'm certain these two can handle the gates for me for a while." He gave them a military salute. "Hold the fort!" With that, he turned to his friend and motioned for him to lead the way. He really did not give going down to town much thought; it seemed surreal at the time. 

    Fitz watched the Fool's antics with some amusement. The other boy's ability to find and create humour was impressive, and Fitz thought he was well suited to his role as King Shrewd's Fool. He set off through the gates and led the Fool onward. "You won't be in trouble for leaving, will you?" he checked. 

    "No, the King just wants me to help the Keep run. And if Fedwren needs things, then it makes sense for me to help there," the Fool replied, shaking his head. He smiled up at his friend. "I missed you," he said abruptly.

    Fitz blinked and his lips parted in surprise at the sudden admission from the other boy. He'd missed the Fool too, but he had not been sure that the Fool felt the same. At times, he had thought the other boy might have been trying to put some distance between them. He would have understood. "I missed you too, Fool. Terribly," he replied with honesty.

    That put a bounce in the Fool’s step, and he let out a shy giggle. Whenever Fitz said something to him even close to the affection he felt, he got this fluttering feeling in his stomach.

    That was a funny thing to giggle at, Fitz thought, but he was used to his friend's oddities. There was something comforting about that consistency, and he relaxed minutely. "Do you have anything that you want to look at in town?"

    "I wouldn't know," the Fool told Fitz, wide-eyed. "I have never journeyed so far down." Saying the words made him a little nervous, and an unpleasant writhing joined the tickles in his stomach.

    Fitz tried to imagine what it would be like to be visiting a strange town for the first time. He had been years younger when he’d first come to Buckkeep and it was hard to recall what he’d felt at the time. Certainly he didn’t think he had ever been as nervous as the Fool seemed to be. He did his best to give him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. I know all of the best places, and I’ll keep you safe.”

    “I shall hold you to that,” the Fool asserted, but he grinned. “Worry not. I trust you, FitzChivalry.”

    Fitz bowed his head at that, and did not reply. He could see nothing he had done to earn that trust. The other boy had seen him kill and steal, and Fitz did not think that he had managed to be a very good friend. He would simply have to try harder, he decided. "I've got a few coppers of my own. We can take some time to look at what the merchants have. You've given me so many things, I ought to get you something to remember your first trip to town by."

    That thought sent an excited gasp from the Fool. "Really?" he asked. "Do you suppose they would have anything from Jamaillia down there? Or maybe Bingtown? Everything from the South is so colourful." He had stopped in both towns on his way North.

    Thinking about it, Fitz replied: "King Shrewd has only limited trade with our neighbours, but probably. We'll look." He had been learning more about geography and about the political situations as they concerned the Six Duchies.

    "Maybe something from the Mountains!" the Fool suggested instead. "Their colours are softer, but more versatile. But if not, maybe you can get something for your room instead."

    Fitz nodded. It had been some time since he had been to town. At least a year, he realized with some surprise. There had been a few traders from the mountains then. Of course, he and his friends had been more concerned with other things, then. He wondered if he would see them again, and if he would recognize them if he did. Or if they would recognize him without Nosy at his heels. "Probably. We'll look," he said. The Fool's enthusiasm was a relief, and so was knowing that the other boy had missed him. He knew that he held himself at arms’ length, and he knew that his words were more those of an acquaintance than a friend, but he could not think of a thing to say that wouldn't poke at the healing places where their friendship was still raw and sensitive.

    The Fool enjoyed the companionable silence as they walked. On a few occasions, he accidentally brushed up against Fitz because they were walking so close. He pointed and exclaimed when they started seeing the roofs of the town, and turned to Fitz excitedly.

    Fitz returned the Fool's smile, and it came to him more naturally that time. "Almost there. Shall we go down through the shops, and then to the bazaar? I imagine that all of this will take some while to find." Fitz examined the list of items. There were only seven things, but they were quite varied. No-one had indicated when he would be expected back, either. All of that told him that he might be able to steal the whole afternoon to adventure with the Fool if he wanted, and so he saw no reason why they should not take their time. If the Fool had never seen the town before, then he wanted to show the other boy everything. Taken by some excitement then, Fitz thought of all of his old haunts. He dearly wanted to show the Fool the wonders that only children could find.

    "We should get those things on the list first," the Fool remarked. "Besides, then it will give us a chance to see everything else the market has to offer." A sudden thought occurred to him. "Do you suppose your friends will like me?" There was no doubt in his mind that Fitz would seek them out, and he did not want to be a burden.

    “Oh, I think so." The nature of Fitz’s smile changed to one of reminiscence. "There weren't so many of us, and the group would change from time to time. A few were always the same. You would have liked Kerry. He liked to play jokes." And so Fitz fell into telling the Fool some of the brighter tales he could remember. The fish under the inn keeper's tables, the time Dirk had fallen into the water because he had been trying to balance on a post, the way Nosebleed used to punch the boys if they teased her. As they entered the town proper, Fitz took the Fool's hand the way he used to. Town was always busy on a market day, and he didn't want the Fool to fear.

    It was a good thing that Fitz had the Fool's hand, because otherwise he would have run off in ten seconds flat. There was so much noise and bustle and activity, and the Fool wanted to see it all. His wide smile never left his lips, and his eyes were bright.

    The Fool's enthusiasm was infectious, and Fitz found himself enjoying the trip to town. The Fool attracted many a stare from the townsfolk, but Fitz either glared or ignored them, pulling the Fool through the crowds from shop to shop. The Fool, on the other hand, waved cheerily at everyone who looked twice at him and even stuck his tongue out at a few. He was having a grand time, and only realized they had reached the market when he smelled the various foods for sale.

    Fitz gradually relaxed his vigil, and even smiled at the Fool's antics. It was nice to see the other boy having such fun, and nice to know that he'd had some hand in it. "Would you like something to eat?" he asked.

    "I would love that," the Fool said sincerely. "But like I said, you should get the things for Fedwren first. You know, in case you run out of money." The Fool had rarely had anything to spend, so he was very conscious of finances.

    "You don't have to worry," Fitz said. "I've set aside what's for Fedwren's. Besides, it wouldn't be any fun to hunt for all of these things with an empty belly."

    "You're right." The Fool stopped, trying to take in all the foods around him. "I don't know where to start," he whispered. "There's so much. You pick." Fitz was the one paying, after all.

    It was interesting to see the Fool so wonderstruck, and he thought that he understood a bit. After so long at the Keep, the market was a bit overwhelming. It was also different to be dressed well, with coins in his purse. A far cry from the ragged child stealing smoked fish and sausages. "I'm not sure what I want either, to be honest," Fitz said. Faced with so many decisions, he would probably choose something comfortable and familiar. The Fool should have something he wanted, though, and so Fitz led him slowly amongst the stalls so that they could look and smell.

    The foods laid out were appealing and aromatic, but what drew the Fool's eye most was a fruit stand. The colours popped, and there were fruits there from all the neighbouring kingdoms: pineapple, blackberries, raspberries, melons, and best of all, Chalced cherries, which the Fool surmised had to have been smuggled in, or else have been a secondary trade. Relations were not the best with Chalced.

    Fitz read the Fool's interest in the way his eyes lingered on the stall, so he took them closer and looked. There was an impressive variety, and some of the fruits there he did not even know the names of. "What would you like?" He asked.

    "I--" the Fool started to answer, but the man working the stall cut him off. He had taken in Fitz's well-tailored clothing and guessed the weight of his purse. "A full plate, as much as you can fit, for only ten copper! Yes, you heard me, a full plate, ten copper!" He smiled invitingly at the pair.

    Fitz considered the offer. Burrich had taken him along to buy a horse once, and he had been witness to the way Burrich had bargained. They had come away satisfied, with a good stallion and some gold left besides. Fitz had been surprised, but Burrich explained that it was the people’s taxes that paid for the king’s horses and many other things besides, so why would he spend more than he had need to? Not that Burrich would ever have bought a lesser beast, but he would buy quality for the least amount of coin he could manage. “We’ll give you seven,” Fitz suggested. “We’re smaller than your other customers, and will eat less than they would.”

    The man shrugged. “Not a chance, lads. The plates are the same size, no matter the size of your bellies.” He patted his own ample stomach. 

    The Fool grimaced. “I am the King’s personal fool, sir, known to attract crowds that span the whole kingdom. If I stand here to attract customers to your stand, then I could pay that way. Say...fifteen customers in one hour, and you sell the plate for seven copper?” There was a challenge in his bold words, and he extended his hand in truce.

    Fitz thought, in a brief flash to his younger self, that the Fool would have been very good to have along when he and his gang of friends had been thieving. The Fool would have been an excellent distraction. He would be doing none of that today, though. He looked at the man expectantly. "With the King's own court jester outside your stall, I imagine that you'll soon have quite a crowd. That's worth more than three coppers."

    The man took another glance at the strange-looking boy. "Tell you what," he bargained. "You get me twenty customers, I sell the plate to you for seven. ‘Til then, nothing." 

    The Fool wrinkled his nose. "Tell you what," he said, mimicking the man's voice. "We pay three now, and you give us the food. We can eat while we help you. If we get you fifteen customers, we pay you another three after. If we don't attract that many in an hour, we pay you four. And that makes seven." It was an hour of their time eaten up, after all.

    Fitz raised his eyebrows at the Fool's interesting proposition, but he said nothing to disagree. He hoped that he would be of some use.

    While the man was considering this, a young couple had walked up to the stall. Upon being ignored, they left after a few moments. The market was busy, after all, and there were other places to eat. The man tried to call after them when he noticed, but they were out of earshot. He was not clever enough to come up with a counterproposal to the Fool's suggestion, and no one else was approaching his stand. "Forget it!" he snapped. "Just take the damned plate for six and get out of here." Smirking, the Fool winked at Fitz and began serving the fruit onto a plate. The merchant had already started hawking his wares again.

    Fitz shook his head in amazement, "You're incredible, Fool."

    The Fool beamed at the compliment and popped an extra raspberry into his mouth. When he had filled a plate, he looked around for somewhere comfortable to sit. He had deliberately looked away from Fitz--the Fool would not steal from the market, but he would turn a blind eye if his friend walked without paying, but Fitz paid the merchant and then took in the variety of things the Fool had chosen. "Those must be from all over," he observed. "Do you know them all?"

    "Not all of them," the Fool replied, "but they all look quite ripe. Is there a bench somewhere? Or even a fountain?"

    Fitz was impressed by the Fool's bravery at trying new things. "Um. Yes, I think so," he said. He found them neither an unoccupied bench, nor a fountain, but he did locate a nice spot beneath a tree. "Have you travelled to many places, Fool?"

    The Fool sat down next to Fitz and balanced the plate on the leg closest to the other boy. "I've travelled  _ through _ many places, but I've never been able to stop anywhere," he said with some regret.

    "It must have been interesting to see them," Fitz said. "Do you think you'll ever go back?" 

    "I know I will," said the Fool, who had dreamed about standing on the edge of a dock. The people around him had had accents different than those in the Duchies, so he guessed it was probably Bingtown the Dream had taken place in.

    Fitz nodded. He was glad for his friend, who seemed so enamoured of new things and places. He would never travel like that, never escape the keep or his role as the royal bastard. Not if he did not want his throat cut. He said nothing of wandering scribes or dreams of anonymity to the Fool. "I'm glad you'll get to," he said instead. "I imagine that everywhere has need of entertainers."

    The Fool paused with a piece of watermelon halfway to his mouth. "Fitz," he asked seriously. "Do you think I'll be a jester forever?" He hadn't considered that when he had taken the position, but who knew to what Shrewd might ask him to swear.

    Fitz blinked at the Fool. He had always been the fool to him. "Ah, well, I'm not sure," he stammered. "What would you like to be?"

    The Fool smiled at him, but it turned playful. "Maybe I'd like to save the world." His tone made it sound like a jest, but he really hoped that he would be the Prophet to succeed where the others had failed.

    "I think that if anyone could manage it, it would be you," Fitz said. The Fool had already brightened the world of an unwanted bastard. "But save it from what?" He knew that there were troubles in places: Outislanders growing more bold in their raids, drought in the south, political trouble with the Mountains. Surely the Fool did not mean to solve them all.

    "Everything," the Fool said quite seriously. "I can't do it alone, though."

    Fitz smiled. "Everything is a rather lot, Fool." He took a berry from the plate and ate it. It was ripe enough to burst in his mouth, filling it with tart sweetness. "I'm not sure that a hundred men could solve everything."

    "Two could," the Fool replied, but he popped a strawberry into his mouth as an excuse to fall silent there.

    Fitz huffed a small laugh, his first in what felt like a long time. "I don't understand you sometimes."

    The Fool sighed. "I know, FitzChivalry. Don't worry. You're far from the only one."

    "Perhaps if you did not speak in riddles," Fitz teased carefully.

    "Perhaps if I did not speak," the Fool countered without missing a beat.

    "No-one would understand you then."

    The Fool looked at his friend, his eyes slowly narrowing. "You did," he remarked.

    Fitz swallowed and then looked away. Their first meeting had been long ago, but the memory of it was still fresh. "I did," he agreed.

    The Fool laughed as soon as Fitz broke eye contact. "I win," he declared.

    Narrowing his eyes, Fitz looked back. Had they been playing some sort of game? "Eat your food," he grumbled, and then took up a raspberry to shove in the Fool's mouth.

    The Fool giggled as he accepted the berry. When he had swallowed, he said: "You're very good at the Burrich voice."

    Fitz flushed. "What Burrich voice?"

    The Fool cleared his throat and tried to make his voice gruff. It didn't sound as much like Burrich as Fitz did, but it got the point across. "You know the one, boy."

    A laugh was startled from Fitz, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. "It's you who's impersonating him now, not me."

    "I was making a point!" the Fool defended himself, letting out a small cough. "It hurts my throat."

    "Would you like some water?" Fitz asked, reaching for his waterskin. "And I don't see what point you had to make. I don't sound anything like Burrich."

    "Well, not  _ now _ you don't." The Fool used a piece of pineapple in place of water. "Never mind."

    Fitz shook his head. "I'm not like him." He didn't think that he wanted to be, anyway. "People say that I look like my father."

    The Fool tipped his head. "I never met Prince Chivalry," he admitted, "but I know where there's a portrait of him."

    Fitz was intrigued momentarily, but then rejected the thought. "I don't really want to see a portrait." His father had never once looked on him. Fitz did not want to look at a portrait of a man who would not willingly show himself to him. Did not want his first glimpse of his father to be some unmoving thing.

    The Fool did not understand why, but nor did he ask. "Well, I can tell you that he's beautiful," he said. "So at least you got that much from him."

    "What?" Fitz looked at the Fool in shock, a small blush on his cheeks.

    "What?" the Fool echoed innocently. Did Fitz not know he was pretty? Was it odd for him to inform him so?

    "Never mind." Fitz looked away again. "Once we're done eating, I have an idea where we could start searching for Fedwren's things."

    "Alright," the Fool agreed. "I certainly am glad you know where you're going."

    "The town's not so big once you get used to it," Fitz said. "Thank you for coming with me." He had not been sure that the Fool would after how strained things had been between them. 

    "Thank you for inviting me!" the Fool returned. "I wouldn't have wanted to hold you back."

    "You couldn't," Fitz said. Their small feast was quickly gone, evidenced only in the stains on their lips and fingers. The fruit and berries had been sweet, juicy, and good. Fitz had preferred to eat the things that he was already familiar with, and so left the more exotic items for the Fool to enjoy. Fitz then led the Fool through the permanent shops. Fedwren's list took them to all corners of the town. Some things were easy to come by, but seamaid's hair and forester's nuts were proving more challenging. He did not spot any familiar faces among the children they passed either. 

    At last, Fitz decided to take them down to the bazaar, where the common folk set out their blankets and displayed their wares. It would be a good place to find the Fool a present, he thought, and they could search of the last of Fedwren's things as well. The seaweed was easiest, of course, down by the harbour, but the nuts eluded him until he came to the blanket of an old woman with silver-streaked hair. She had all manner of things on display, in addition to the nuts, and Fitz found himself fascinated. The odd designs that covered some of the carvings were familiar somehow, and the shape of the woman's nose and the prominence of her cheekbones were familiar too in a way that prickled over Fitz's consciousness. Feeling as though he shook off a ghost's touch, Fitz knelt to examine the wares more closely.

    The Fool had started to examine the wares on the woman's blanket, but something else caught his eye and he wandered a little ways away. The merchant he walked to was an elderly woman selling miniature paintings on small scraps of leather, too tiny to use for any real tailoring. She had portraits, animal paintings, landscapes, even a few of ships. He smiled at her and was about to ask her something when he heard the woman behind him to whom he assumed Fitz was talking cry out. It sounded like, "Keppet!" but the Fool did not think that was a real word.

    Fitz glanced at the younger woman and then back at the merchant, who made no move to acknowledge the other. A bit confused, Fitz ignored her as well. A few of the beads on display were very nicely done, with delicate carvings of birds and flowers, and he thought that the Fool would like them. He took a few the the deemed to be the nicest, and he paid for them along with Fedwren's forester's nuts. The old woman's face was almost stony while he passed her the coins, and he wondered if he had offended her somehow.

    "Keppet!" the woman cried out again, and the Fool turned with a frown. He was not sure to whom she was talking, but it seemed like she needed some help. He made a move to approach her, but the old woman stared him down so fiercely that he froze in his tracks.

    Fitz stepped away from the blanket warily and turned to approach the Fool, having secured his purchases. The nuts he put into his basket, but the beads he tucked into his purse for safekeeping. 

 

   Molly Chandler had been putting off her trip to the market for as long as she could. Her father was not a trusting fellow, and he deemed her every journey outside to be a tryst. Additionally, she was worried about him one day drinking too much and tripping headfirst into the hearth. Despite how he treated her, he was all she had. In a way, he was the only remaining link to her mother. With this in mind, she went about her business as quickly as possible, but was delayed by a commotion in the bazaar. It appeared that an older woman was wrestling a younger one back to her place, and there were two idiot children standing in the middle of the street blocking her way. She surmised they must have been actors, from the way the pale one was dressed. "Excuse me," she said pointedly as she tried to pass them.

    Fitz blinked, and then stared. He had been about to take the Fool's hand to guide him out of the way, but he froze and his hand dropped back to his side. "Nosebleed?" 

    Molly turned. She had made it past them with some careful maneuvering, but she believed the boy dressed like a young noble was speaking to her. "Pardon me?"

    Fitz took a step after her, certain that he was right. "Molly Nosebleed, that's you isn't it?" 

    Her brow furrowed. "I'm Molly Chandler," she informed him. "Might I ask who you are, sir?" She gave him the proper honorific just in case he  _ was _ a young noble. He certainly had what she had heard described as the 'Farseer look.'

    The Fool was looking between the two with increasing shock, his pale eyes wide. The first thing he had noticed was the red skirts. The second was that Fitz seemed to recognize this girl. "Oh no..." he whispered. This would be the woman to break the Catalyst's heart.

    Fitz mirrored her expression, confused by her lack of recognition. She had certainly changed, with her dark hair loose and flowing around her shoulders instead of braided, and skirts instead of trousers. She looked like a girl. Had he changed so much too? Wanting to understand, he quested after her and tried to calm the fears he found. "I'm Newboy."

    Molly dropped her guard. It had been so long, she thought maybe Newboy had run away, never to come back. She smiled at him. "Newboy! You've changed!" She gestured at him with her free arm: his hair, his tailored clothes, even his posture. And he was missing his dog.

    Neither of the two old friends appeared to have heard the Fool, which he regarded as good. He settled for looking at Molly nervously.

    Fitz's expression shifted into a glad, but self-conscious smile. He found himself searching her features. Now that she had recognized him, he could see all of the little familiar things with more clarity. "So have you," he said, earnestly. "You're in skirts!"

    "I've been wearing skirts for some time now," Molly informed him proudly. "I find them much more comfortable than trousers. This one used to be my mother's." It was at this point that Molly noticed the Fool staring at her. "Who are you?" she asked, not harshly, but not kindly either.

    Remembering his manners, the Fool dipped into a bow. She may have been a commoner, but he was a servant. "No one of importance, simply a fool."

    Fitz winced, realizing that he'd been rude. He took the Fool's arm and pulled him closer. "He's my friend," Fitz explained. "He's the Fool at the keep. Fool, this is Nosebleed- er, Molly. She's one of the friends I told you about earlier."

    The Fool was in a dilemma now. Knowing what Molly would become to Fitz, he did not trust her, nor did he like her very much. However, for events to fall into place the way they were supposed to, Fitz had to grow close enough to her to have her break his heart. He hesitated a moment too long, but ended up smiling at her.

    Molly was unnerved by the other child. She was really not sure what to make of the Fool, who clearly was just as surprised as she was to be in this situation. She nodded back and addressed Newboy again. "It's lovely to see you again, but my father is expecting me home," she said somewhat regretfully.

    "Oh," Fitz said, disappointed. He remembered her father well, and could not say that he was pleased to hear him mentioned. He also wished that they'd had more time to be reacquainted. "We're on errands for the Scribe," Fitz said. "He has need of two beeswax tapers, if you have them." This was a lie, and he was not sure what they cost. He did not want to be parted from his old friend so soon, though, and he did not think the Fool would mind.

The Fool had read the list, and he knew for a fact that there were no beeswax tapers on it. So. It began. He kept his mouth shut, though it tore at him inside.

"Of course I do," Molly replied with a smile, glad to have found an excuse to spend some time with an old friend. "I find beeswax holds the scent much better than tallow. Even the two other chandlers in town agree that my candles turn out lovely. Come." She started back to her shop, showing Newboy some herbs along the way.

    Fitz followed, throwing a glance at the Fool that begged him to understand. Molly had changed so much since the days they had spent roaming the streets, and he found himself astounded at how much knowledge she'd accumulated over the years. She impressed him, and he yearned to impress her too. "Oh, I know the thresher's root..." he chimed in, but by the time he finished his contribution he was wincing over his poor choice. Of course it could be used to kill a child, but had he needed to say so? The fact had just slipped out. He stumbled through his fabricated explanation to Molly, but he knew that the Fool would not believe it. He hadn't wanted to remind his friend of the more unsavoury things he knew.

    Molly accepted the explanation with some wariness, but she quickly dismissed the incident. She brought Fitz to the shop and signalled to him and his friend to wait outside for a moment. Peeking her head in, she saw that her father was asleep. "Come in," she told them, "but be quiet." She looked at the Fool critically, unsure of how someone with bells on would be able to comply with that.

    "I'll wait out here," said the Fool, disguising his bitterness with a good-natured shrug. He knew that Fitz knew that he could move silently, and he considered his refusal to join him payback for the child-poisoning remark.

    Fitz winced at the Fool's tone. He doubted that Molly would have remarked upon anything amiss, but Fitz had grown used to the Fool's usual cadence and inflections. The Fool was unhappy. Shamefaced, Fitz could not look at the Fool as he followed Molly inside. His friend's disappointment in him was a mirror to a part of himself that he held separate from his nighttime lessons with Chade, and it hurt to pay attention to his own shame.

    The Fool sought somewhere to sit, but no sooner had he settled himself beneath a tree than he turned his mind back to the encounter they had had in the bazaar. Before Molly had interrupted, the Mountain woman had definitely been trying to talk to Fitz. The Fool rolled the word around in his mind and tested it a few times in a whisper, as if saying it aloud would reveal its secrets to him. 

    “Keppet,” he said, above a whisper this time, and stood, biting his lip. It did not sound familiar, but it did sound naggingly important, and the Fool was determined to figure out what it meant. Casting a furtive glance at the closed door of the chandlery, he decided that he had time to do some investigating. 

    As he had hoped, the women were still there. Keeping in mind the older one’s hostility, the Fool approached the younger woman from behind and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned with a quiet gasp, but her eyes went past him and searched furtively. “Keppet?” she asked, sounding disappointed. 

    The Fool shook his head. “I don’t know what that means,” he tried to explain, but by this time, the older woman had noticed the encounter. 

    “Are you interested in buying?” she asked in a thick accent, but the challenge in her words was obvious. Before the Fool could answer, the younger woman turned to the elder and seemed to plead with her in rapid Chyurdan. The older woman merely scowled at her and replied in a few short words. 

    Knowing that he would be turned away if he said he was not a customer, the Fool came around the front of the women and crouched to look at the objects they had for sale. Since the older woman could clearly speak Duchytongue, the Fool addressed her: “What does ‘Keppet’ mean?’”

    She simply glared. 

    Grimacing, the Fool perused the things laid out on the blanket, but neither of the Mountain women seemed inclined to speak to him again--the younger one regarding him fearfully and the older staring daggers through him. Eventually he stood with a sigh, but the younger woman gave an inarticulate cry and grabbed his hand. The Fool froze, and he turned his head slowly to regard the woman, hoping to glean something from her expression. 

    The woman shuddered as she met the Fool’s pale gaze, and her hand dropped limply from his. She looked aside almost contritely, but the woman beside her gave a great snort of content, shooing the Fool away. 

    The Fool tightened his fist around the object he had felt slip into his palm, hoping the old woman had not seen it. It was all he could do to slip away without betraying himself. When he reached the tree under which he started, he pulled his legs up to his chest and opened the note slowly, trying to keep it hidden as much as he could.

    The script was hurried and messy, but even if it had been written neatly the Fool would not have been able to read it, for he knew no Chyurdan. Running his eyes over the letters and learning their shapes did nothing to help. By the time he tucked the note into a pocket he could have copied it from memory, and he vowed he would learn Chyurdan then, just so he could tell Fitz what the young woman had so obviously wanted to.

 

    Fitz left feeling better than he had when he had arrived. He had managed to make Molly happy. She had remembered him, and she called him Newboy, not bastard or boy. He had not realized how much he had missed that. He looked for the Fool as he exited.

    The Fool, upon looking back up at the door, had again recalled the situation that left him outside in the first place and began to feel rather like a spurned puppy or a cast-off toy, discarded when someone new and exciting came along. He was feeling quite sorry for himself when Fitz came back out, but he tried not to look too hurt as he stood.

    Fitz approached the Fool with a smile on his face, buoyed by his reunion with Molly. "I'm sorry that took so long, Fool. She had me read some tablets for her. It turns out that her true name is Molly Nosegay, but she hadn't known it. That must have been why the older children always called her Nosebleed. I wish you could have come, but she didn't want to wake her father and your bells... Um." He ducked his head, guilt catching up with him. The Fool had been kind enough to wait, and Fitz had forgotten that the Fool had been upset about his comment regarding Thresher's Root. "Thank you for waiting..." he mumbled, blushing.

    The Fool, having received the proper recognition, was mollified enough not to be too upset. "You're welcome," he replied, though he was still wary about 'Molly Nosegay' and her Red Skirts. "We should head back to the Keep," he warned his friend. The sun was on its westward arc.

   Trying to gauge his friend's mood, Fitz nodded. "We should, I suppose...Oh." He reached into his purse and took out the three wooden beads. He held them out to the Fool. "I got these for you earlier, when we were down by the harbour...I thought that they were nice. If you'd like to pick something out yourself, we might have time, though."

    A small gasp left the Fool, and he accepted the beads with a smile. He turned them about to examine them before answering, "Thank you, Fitz, they're wonderful." Keeping the beads in one fist, he reached for his friend's hand with his free one. He had thought Fitz had forgotten about wanting to get him something. While that would not have upset him, it still made him very glad to learn he had been wrong.

    Fitz felt some of the tension leave him, as he took the Fool's hand. He had apparently been forgiven, or if not forgiven, at least he was still accepted. "I thought that the carving was amazing. I don't think that I could ever do it, but it was nice. He explained as they began to walk.

    The Fool recalled the way the wood had been shaped to give the illusion that the carved figures were real. He smiled, resolving that he would have to learn the craft, especially if it amazed the other boy. "I agree," he said quietly. Now that they were away from the chandlery, the Fool thought perhaps he had overreacted, and that Fitz had not had that gleam in his eye when he saw Molly.

    Fitz let their conversation lapse into silence while he thought. He felt glad that the Fool was not upset, and that he had met Molly. He did, however, have some nagging guilt about lying to her. It was not as though he could simply tell the world that he was learning to be an assassin, though, and he could not stand the thought of her knowing him as the Farseer bastard. Those parts of him were separate from Newboy, and he wanted them to stay that way. He stole a glance at the Fool, who knew all of those parts of him. Even the Fool had been repelled by what his assassin's training had made of him. If he could have reversed time and taken back his killing of that man in the woods, or his theft of the fruit knives, he would have. He did not regret Chade, though. His mentorship filled a place in his heart that had been achingly empty. Fitz walked along quietly while he considered the conflicting parts of himself.

    Wanting to make the most of the fleeting time they had together, the Fool was desperate to keep the conversation going. "How long have you known Molly?" he asked, only to be polite, of course, and not from personal interest.

    The Fool's interruption was welcome, and Fitz blinked out of his thoughts, smiling. "A long time. Almost since I first came to Buckkeep. Burrich wasn't much interested in watching me, so I slipped away to town a lot back then. It must have been two years since I saw her, though. I'm surprised that she remembered me. I almost didn't recognize her in skirts, because she was always dressed as a boy when we were younger. She looks like a woman now," Fitz said, with wonder in his voice.

    "She does, at that," the Fool was forced to admit, the sleek fabric of those red skirts flowing about in his mind's eye. He wondered just how much of Molly Fitz had taken note of, and if the other boy had wanted a look past those dreaded red skirts. The Fool shook the thought from his head. "I'm glad you found her." That much was true: she seemed to make Fitz happy

    "So am I," Fitz said, and he was smiling. It was perhaps the happiest thing that had happened to him since Chade had taken him as his apprentice. "If I can get away from the keep, I'll try to see her again. You could come with me," he offered. "What did you think of Buckkeep town?"

    "The town is lovely, but I doubt I'll be able to join you again." The second half of the sentence came out faster than the Fool might have liked. It was due to the fact that he simply did not want to see Molly again. And if his suspicions were correct, Molly and Fitz would not want him there anyways. He offered his friend a regretful look.

    Fitz frowned. "Is it because of King Shrewd? You won't be in trouble this time, will you?"

    "I won't be in trouble," the Fool assured him, "but around this time of year we always have more visitors. I imagine I will be needed in the Keep." This was true, and he was glad it gave him an alibi without having to lie.

    Fitz nodded, accepting the excuse. "I'm glad that you were able to come with me this time, then." Fitz thought back on the day, and thought that it was one of the best ones he had had in a time. He would have to endeavour to be in town more often. "I'll bring you something back," Fitz promised. "Do you think that I should find a gift for Molly too? Since she's so grown up, she might like something like a pin or something for her hair." He blushed a bit as he added, "She's very pretty, isn't she, Fool?"

    The anticipated jab to his heart finally struck the Fool, but since he had been expecting it so long it felt more like a bee sting than an épée. He nodded, and his answer was pushed out of him before he could think about what consequences it might have. "She is, but your beauty far surpasses hers."

    Fitz's eyebrows shot up and he looked at the Fool incredulously. Such comments came from the Fool sometimes, but they were still very odd to hear. "Um, thank you Fool. I would hardly call myself beautiful though."

    The Fool stopped in the middle of the road and turned to face his friend. "You have always been infuriatingly modest, my friend," he remarked. "If you would look at yourself sometimes, without that label of 'bastard' blindfolding you, you might just see what I do. Look at you! Your eyes are deep enough to drown in; you have a strong, royal profile; even your shoulders are starting to broaden." Having dropped the beads into a pocket, both of the Fool's hands came to rest on Fitz's shoulders as he said this. "And never have I seen such hair as yours: somehow it always has that shine of vitality to it, and that sleek look that drives one to want to run their fingers through it." One hand strayed towards Fitz's hair at this point, but he pulled it back before he could perform such an action: even for him, that would be improper.

    Fitz's blush grew progressively deeper as the Fool spoke and he looked at the Fool in disbelief until his embarrassment forced him to look away. He was not sure what to say in the face of such praise. He had never paid much mind to the way he looked before, and he had always thought that beauty was for women and horses. "You speak nonsense," he mumbled gruffly, once again very Burrich-like.

    The Fool could have shaken Fitz at that point, just to get the idea through his thick skull. Instead, he sighed and dropped his hands. "You may think so, but you are gravely mistaken. Until such time as you believe me, I shall continue to define your beauty for you, even if it takes the rest of our lives."

    One thing stood out to Fitz, despite being unsure what to make of the rest of the declaration: "The rest of our lives?"

    "Well...yes." The Fool was not sure why Fitz was questioning this, or even what he was questioning.

    Fitz looked at the Fool again and tried to fathom the idea of the rest of their lives and of something so permanent as that. The Fool had said it with such confidence and so matter-of-factly that Fitz found he really believed it, or at least believed that the Fool believed it. He tightened his grip on the Fool's hand as though he could somehow keep that touch for however many years the rest of their lives was. "Well," he said. "That's good. I'd like that." 

    The Fool found suddenly that he did not care about Molly's affections, nor Regal's torments, nor even the fact that Fitz killed people. All that mattered was that they were going to be together for the rest of their lives, and he could scarce hope for more. "Good! Come then, great beauty of Buckkeep. Homeward-bound!"

    Fitz smiled. It truly had been a wonderful day. "Home, then." Fitz confirmed, though it hardly seemed necessary. There was only the one road before them, and it inevitably led to the keep. It was a shame that the day was nearly done, and a shame that they wouldn't have another like it, at least not soon, with the Fool so busy.

Prince Verity Farseer rode hard up the road, spurring his horse ever faster as the hill grew steeper. He had to reach his father, and fast. He had just received word of Chivalry's death, and though it tore him up inside, his first duty was to the kingdom. He gripped the reins with one hand while he held the messenger's baton in the other. Regal had been with him when they found out, and though they disagreed in nearly every walk of life, in this they were brothers. Verity could only hope that Chiv's death had touched Regal as much as it had touched him. 

    From the corner of his eye Verity caught a flash of colour and heard a shout of surprise as he nearly ran down two boys on the road. He realized belatedly that one of them was Fitz and felt the boy deserved an explanation, even if he was a bastard. He reined in the horse, stopping so suddenly that he would have been thrown if he was a poorer horseman. He did not expect Regal to stop.

    Regal could not say that he was displeased to hear of his brother's death. It served him right. Still, it was disconcerting. They had grown up together. The pompous, arrogant, pillar-of-virtue had been infuriating with his rigid adherence to what he considered to be the standard of behaviour for all men. It had been ridiculous. Regal had hated him. And then perfect Chivalry had gone and made a bastard and abdicated the throne. Regal had been overjoyed as much as he had been shocked. He had moved a step closer to inheriting the throne, and he had taken satisfaction in that. He had accepted that Chivalry was out of the way, gotten used to him being tucked away in Withywoods.

    And now he was dead. It served him right. It was just a shock. He was jolted out of his thoughts when Verity reined in, hard. Heart in his throat, Regal cast about for the disturbance, fearing brigands, only to see Chivalry and some spectre on the road. He cried out in alarm and pulled the reins. His horse spun aside and nearly toppled him out of the saddle.

    Fitz heard the sound of fast-paced hoofbeats and tugged the Fool, who went willingly despite his cry of fear, off to the side of the road. The Fool managed to keep Fitz standing, but he himself toppled over into the dirt. When he caught his breath, he looked up to see the Princes Verity and Regal, and quickly hopped to his feet to bow to them.

    Fitz’s surprise at seeing his two uncles was outweighed by his concern for the poor beasts. Burrich would be furious. He took a step closer to peer in concern at Regal's colt, but continued to hold tight to the Fool's hand. "Burrich will have fits if you break that colt's knees!" 

    Verity heard Regal's near collision, but spared only a brief glance behind him for his brother's safety. He held a steadying hand out. "Peace, Fool," he bade his father's servant. The time was passed for such formalities, especially in light of the news. He gave a chuckle at his brother's cry. "You thought he was a ghost, didn't you? Ah, I might have as well, with you standing so quiet and looking so much like him. He does look quite a bit like him, ey, Regal?"

    Regal felt an angry heat on his cheeks, and he snapped in his embarrassment, sitting straighter in his saddle. He had not been afraid. Merely taken aback. What business did they have on the road at this hour in the first place? "Verity, you're as big a fool as that one there. Hold your tongue." He looked down his nose haughtily at the two children. "What are the two of you doing out of the keep at this hour, hm? The bastard and the freak. Up to no good, I'll wager. Sneaking off to town for some mischief?"

    Fitz looked up from frowning in concern at Regal's horse, confused by the sharpness of the rebuke. "We've been running errands," he answered, holding up his basket, which was full of their purchases. He glanced at the Fool, wondering what he made of this.

    "Quite obviously, brother mine,” Verity input. “They were traveling the same direction as us, and the basket on the boy's arm is proof." He gave Fitz a kindly smile. "Please forgive my brother, for we have both had a bit of a shock. We were summoned to town by an urgent message, and when we received it it was from none other than Patience, to tell us that Chivalry's dead..." He trailed off with a sigh, his eyes dropping off the side of the road. "And then of course we see you, his spitting image, and--"

    The Fool gave a soft gasp and his brow furrowed. He knew that Fitz had never met his father--the Fool had not made Chivalry's acquaintance either--but he could well imagine the hurt and shock he would feel anyways. He slipped his hand into his friend's, giving it a light squeeze to comfort the other boy at the same time as Regal hissed at Verity, giving him a sharp look. 

    Truly the man was an idiot. And he was to be the next in line for the throne? Absurd. "Hold your tongue, I said, you fool. Trumpeting it for all the kingdom to hear before our own father..." He narrowed his eyes at the bastard and his pet. "And you shouldn't encourage the bastard with ideas that he looks like Chivalry. He has ideas enough from what I've heard...Well, there are solutions for that. We have a message to deliver, or have you forgotten?"

    Fitz blinked, glancing between Regal and Verity. Half of his mind was still on the poor horses. They'd been ridden hard, and Regal had never been kind to his beasts. He thought that he should tell Burrich to be sure that they got some good oats that evening. It took a moment for the nature of their errand to penetrate into his mind. "Oh," he said at last. His brow furrowed. "My father's dead." It did not seem quite real. He felt the Fool's hand slip into his and he looked down at it, then up at Verity. He had always been the kindest.

    "Yes," said Verity, "my brother is dead." He looked at Chivalry's son--truly looked at him, seeing  _ Fitz _ instead of the unlucky bastard boy. He allowed that moment of kinship to pass between them, and then marked the presence of the Fool's hand in Fitz's. Well, he thought, it was good to have someone his age as a close friend. Much as he and Chivalry had been, Verity supposed. "Both of you, behind us," he commanded, not caring a whit for Regal's protests, which he knew would come. "We'll take you back to the Keep. My father will want to see both of you, no doubt."

    Since a horse could not be ridden triple, Verity's offer meant that one of them would have to ride with Regal. The Fool would not subject Fitz to that, but neither did he wish to be pushed off by the youngest prince. "My lord," he addressed Verity. "Take Fitz, for this is a family affair. I can walk, and deliver Fedwren's items to him."

    Regal sneered down at the two children. He supposed that it was fitting that the two who should never have been born had found each other for company. No one else would want them. "Leave them be, brother. We have important business to attend to. Let the two wretches find their way back on their own. If we are very lucky, perhaps we'll be rid of them." He set spurs to his horse and took off, leaving his fool of a half-brother to talk with the two idiots if he wished.

    Fitz bit his lip and then shook his head. "No, thank you, Prince Verity."

    The Fool watched Regal go, and he could only imagine the distasteful way he would break the news to his father. "Prince Verity," he said, "King Shrewd should hear of this from you." He had never been afraid to speak plainly in Verity's company, and he knew the soldier in the middle Prince appreciated it.

    Verity looked somewhat regretful at Fitz's decision, but he sighed again. "We should talk, you and I, boy. Fitz," he corrected himself. "I imagine there is much you would like to know of your father, and I only regret not telling you earlier. I suppose I wanted to leave the opportunity to Chiv..." He regarded the Fool, and then looked after his brother. "I fear that is impossible, my boy. Regal is far ahead of me, and to overtake him would do this horse an injustice. However, I should return." He gave both the boys one last nod and turned his horse back towards the Keep, preparing to ride once more.

    Fitz was not sure what to make of Verity's offer, nor was he sure what to make of the fact that the father he had only ever heard about was dead. Looking a bit bewildered, he scanned Verity's face, and could find no sign of insincerity. "My prince," he said, for lack of anything else to say.

    Verity nodded at Fitz, spared a glance for the Fool, and rode off to speak with his father. He hoped Regal would soften the blow at least a little: all knew that Chiv was Shrewd's favourite.

    The Fool watched Verity ride off and turned to look at his friend. "Fitz," he said, "are you alright?" It was a stupid question, but he felt it would open the door between them, and he wanted to help.

    Fitz looked at the Fool with a furrow in his brow. "I'm alright," he said. He looked up the road toward the keep and envisioned Verity and Regal breaking the news to King Shrewd. He had never known his father, but now his opportunity to ever meet him was gone. His mind ran through hundreds of things he would have said to Prince Chivalry, and all of the questions he would have asked. They were useless now. "Regal's horse will probably have bruises," Fitz commented, sounding a bit lost.

    There was nothing the Fool could say that would make this easier on Fitz: not about Regal, or Verity, or the care of the horses, or even Chivalry. Instead, he put his arms around the other boy and held him close, pulling his head down to his shoulder. Lost in a sort of stupor himself, he ran his fingers through Fitz's hair; the action calmed him, so he imagined it would do the same for his friend.

    Fitz accepted the Fool's embrace, and even raised his arms to fold them around the smaller boy. He had none of the warmth one might expect, but he was alive and breathing and solid. "Why are you doing that?" he asked. "I'm fine." He didn't let go, though. 

    "You're not," said the Fool, who at this point selfishly wanted Fitz not to be fine, so that he could keep this up. The other boy's hair was soft, and it was curly, and it slid through his fingers like silk. He rested his head against Fitz's and closed his eyes, taking in his scent and his warmth and allowing the embrace to become mutually comforting. Later, he would feel awful about taking such an advantage.

    A fine mist had begun, and it felt cool on Fitz’s hands and face. He shut his eyes. The Fool always suffered terribly from the cold, and so Fitz continued to hold onto him. Even that seemed a bit unreal, but he focused on the fingers carding through his hair and the rhythm of the Fool's breaths. He blinked, surprised to find tears prickling the corners of his eyes. He was grateful that the Fool was there, and touched by his offering of comfort. Their friendship had been strained of late, and Fitz had tiptoed around the cracks, hoping that it would hold. The Fool had, without hesitation, danced across that broken expanse to hold him and it was a little bit incredible. He did not deserve such a friend, and that was easier to think about than his father. He wondered, suddenly, how his father had died. He had not thought to ask Verity. "Do you suppose they would miss us if we didn't go back?" He asked, just above a whisper.

    The Fool refrained from answering that for a while, terribly distracted by touching Fitz's hair and by the fact that his friend was accepting it. "Yes," he said,"they will miss us. But not, I think, for some time." Meaning, they could stay out there, just like that, for as long as Fitz needed.

    Fitz accepted that answer with a small nod. He knew that he had duties back at the keep, and he knew that the Fool did as well. They had both sworn to King Shrewd. As always, that temptation was there to leave it all behind. He knew that it would never be more than a daydream. He wondered what would change. Prince Chivalry had never been a part of Fitz's life, but he knew that Chivalry's death would alter things. He sensed it like the scent of prey on the wind, or a cracking twig, or a draught in a small room on the third floor at night. He was reluctant to face that yet, and so he made no move to leave the Fool's embrace. "I really am alright," he said again. "He was never my father, not really. He never cared. I don't think he even looked at me once, so, I'm alright."

    The Fool thought he remembered something King Shrewd had said long ago about how never meeting his father would be best for the boy, but he could not bring himself to tell Fitz that. "I still know where that portrait is," he said instead, "and I imagine he left some things behind at the Keep." He didn't see how a King-in-Waiting could take  _ all _ of his possessions to Withywoods.

    Fitz was surprised to feel anger. He clenched his teeth with it, and it took conscious effort not to fist his hands in the Fool's motley. "Why should I look at it?" he asked. "Why would I care about his portrait or his things, when he was nothing to me? He never even looked at me, Fool. Even though he could have. So why should I do anything now that he's dead?"

    "I'm sorry," the Fool said, almost before Fitz had finished his outburst. He could not fathom why Fitz was upset about this development, but that was the opposite of his plan. He wanted to make his friend feel better. If there was one person--aside from Fitz--who knew how to comfort him, it was his mother. He had not gotten much time with her, but she had always been infallible at easing any upset he had had. So, he did what she used to do. Continuing to stroke the other boy's hair, he pressed his lips to the side of his head: somewhere between a kiss and simply contact.

    The Fool's apology stole the momentum from his anger, and Fitz immediately felt guilty. The last time the Fool had been with him while he was upset, Fitz had hurt him badly. He wouldn't risk doing so again. Better for him to deal with it alone. "I'm not angry with you," Fitz clarified. "I know you want to help." Gently, he extricated himself from the Fool's embrace and avoided meeting his gaze.

    The Fool thinned his lips. He had to proceed with this delicately, lest he make the situation worse. Cautiously, he placed a hand against Fitz's cheek and gently tipped his gaze to look him in the eye. He did not know what he saw there: it certainly was not pain or loss, at least not on the surface. "I can stay with you tonight, if you want," he offered hesitantly.

    Fitz took a breath and exhaled it slowly. He met the Fool's steady gaze, but the compassion there was hard to take. His eyes drifted to the side. "King Shrewd will probably want you," Fitz said. And Chade might want him. For what, though? Fitz thought, bitterly. To look at the dead man's bastard? No, Chade would be busy with more important things, and Fitz would be alone... "Are you sure?" he asked after a moment's thought. 

    "Oh, Fitz, of course I am," the Fool breathed. "You must know by now that your needs come before the wishes of my master. Even if I am a King's Man, I take my duties as your friend--"  _ Your Prophet _ \-- "much more seriously. For you fill a place so deep within my heart that King Shrewd does not even know exists."

    Fitz frowned as his mind fumbled the Fool's words but he heard the 'Yes, I'm sure' and the 'You're my friend' contained within them. The walls that had sprung up against the Fool's affection had begun to relax slightly, but it was still hard to accept. He sighed and looked up the road to the keep again. It was a steep walk. They had better finish it before it began to rain in earnest. "You shouldn't choose me over your loyalty to Shrewd," Fitz advised. He did not deserve it. He still regretted making the Fool choose. "It's probably dangerous."

    "The world is dangerous," said the Fool, who had dropped his hand when Fitz turned away. He sighed as if wearied by the world; some days, he felt as though he truly had lived the lives of all the other Prophets. "I would gladly choose this danger."

    Fitz did not think that was advisable at all, but he had no will to argue and so he took the Fool's hand in his. It had become normal between them, and he welcomed the familiarity. "If you do that, I suppose I'll just have to protect you. Come on. We're going to get wet out here, and you must be cold."

    The Fool was freezing, now that he allowed his thoughts to drift to his own comfort instead of Fitz's. He nodded as they set off on the last leg of their journey back towards the Keep. It felt as if the day had lasted a whole Age, and a wave of weariness passed over the Fool. "Do you want me to stay?" Fitz had not given him an answer

Fitz looked the Fool over and then pulled him a bit closer by their joined hands. "Only if you want to," Fitz said. "Only if you'll not be in trouble with King Shrewd."

    "I won't be," the Fool assured him with more certainty than he felt.

    "Then, will you stay?" Fitz tightened his grip minutely. He asked it more confidently than he had that first night in the Keep.

    "Yes," said the Fool, and again that spark of their connection flowed between their joined hands.

    "Good, then," Fitz said. "That's good." And it was. Because he was fine, and he told himself that he did not care that Chivalry had died, but he found that the idea of being together was infinitely more appealing than being alone. The Fool's compassion had reached him for a short while, and even if he held it at arms’ length, the warmth of it seeped in. He felt a rush of gratitude and he gave the Fool a small smile.

    The Fool did not leave Fitz's side for a second, and he only separated their hands when they came to the other boy's chambers, as he imagined that his friend would need both of his hands. He again gave Fitz the privacy to change and requested his own. When they were both tucked under the sheets, the Fool put his arms around Fitz once more, just as his Catalyst had done the first time.

    Fitz huffed a bit and pulled the Fool closer. He'd put an extra log on his fire, but the other boy was still as cold as a fish. He hoped the misty rain hadn't been too hard on him. Fedwren's basket was abandoned in the corner, but Fitz thought that he would be excused from delivering it until tomorrow in light of everything. "Fool?" He asked into the darkness. 

    "Yes, Fitz?" the Fool responded. The way Fitz spoke his title made it sound like a name, and he liked it almost as much as his true one.

    Fitz pushed a bit of the Fool's hair out of his face. "Thank you," he said. It was easier to say such things in the dark. "You're so nice to me, I don't really understand it. But. I'm glad." He thought of the Fool's earlier words about reminding him for the rest of their lives. It would be good, he thought, if they had that long. It seemed as though everything else around him were only temporary and could be taken from him at any moment.

    A few breaths passed while the Fool tried to find the words to answer. "I'm so nice to you because you are the only person in the world that matters so much that even Time itself will bow to you." He thought that made it sound as if his friendship was a necessity and not of his own volition, so he tried again. "I know how special you are, and my job is to make sure others are made similarly aware. Fitz...I cannot express the depth of my affection for you."

    The two were as close as they could comfortably be, wrapped warmly and securely in each other and the blankets, and Fitz was still as he listened to the Fool's words. Even the darkness served to isolate them from the world, and the words the Fool spoke were for him alone. The answer surprised him with its complexity, and he struggled to keep up. "I don't really understand," Fitz confessed. The only part he'd really been able to make sense of was the final sentence. "Were you... saying that you're nice to me because you like me? Is that it?"

    The Fool smiled, for once grateful that Fitz was so easily able to simplify things. "Yes, Fitz," he mumbled into his friend's hair. "Yes, I'm nice to you because I like you so much. I like you more than anyone could ever like anyone else, ever." It was a childish statement, but he meant it. Even more than husbands and wives were supposed to like each other, and even more than he had liked anyone in his family; the list was infinite.

    Fitz huffed a laugh. "You could have just said that," he grumbled fondly. The Fool was almost always unnecessarily complex with his language. It was part of what made him himself, though, and Fitz enjoyed it. "I like you too," he said. "Please don't ever go away."

    The Fool found himself wondering if Fitz liked him as much as he liked Fitz. He could only hope. "I won't," he promised. "Even if you don't see me for a time, I will never truly leave you."

    Fitz was alarmed a bit at that. "I won't see you? Why?"

    "Peace, Fitz." One hand lightly rubbed the other boy's back. "I have no intentions of going away, I simply meant that if the occasion arises..."

    "I hope that it doesn't," said Fitz,  not at all consoled. The thought of being away from the Fool was unpleasant. Even if he said that it would only be temporary, it might not be and that was frightening.

    "I hope so too," the Fool replied. Letting one hand rest with his fingers threaded through Fitz's hair, he tried to fall asleep..

 

_     “The subject of Molly Chandler is a complex one for me. From the times I have met her, read of her, or observed her duties around the castle, she has seemed to me a very down-to-earth person: resourceful, intelligent, hard-working. Indeed, any who knew of Fitz’s character would say that they were a perfect match. Even Fate seemed to believe that the two of them should produce an heir. What perplexes me, however, is that Fate also decided that Fitz and Molly should not remain together. Perhaps She determined that if the Catalyst settled down with a family, he would lose all motivation to walk the steps of Her Path, laid at my hand. Knowing Fitz, I must say that She would be correct.  _

_     “As much as I admire the sort of woman Molly is, I knew from the onset that she would be the one to destroy my Catalyst, at least concerning matters of the heart. He will lay the blame for this at his own feet, but it does not all rest upon him. For this reason, I was always wary around Molly even as I pushed Fitz toward her. I have always believed that I owe Fitz happiness above Destiny, but it was only the knowledge of the forty-six Prophets that failed before me that encouraged me to continue to push him towards his Fate-decreed outcome. _

_     “I am constantly plagued by guilt over this. I wonder how Fitz can trust me to make him happy after I denied him that very joy for decades. I can only hope that I do not fail now.” _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet  _


	10. On Commencement and Companionship - Purpose

     _Understanding the Fool’s magic was difficult for me for a long time. I don’t believe that I fully understood the implications of what being Prophet and Catalyst meant until a terrible day on a cold island. I had been left with a choice, and I had chosen knowing that what I did in that moment would change everything. I had seen it as clearly as though I had been the Fool himself, with all the threads of possibility visible before me. I had not thought about that, though. I had only known what I could and could not do. The Fool used me well, I think._

 _I have long forgiven him for all of the ways in which he influenced my life. It was not Beloved who wished those things upon me, but Fate, just as I was not the one who wished the death of all those I killed in the name of my king_ _._

 

    Fitz slept, and in the morning, the Fool was gone. He didn't worry about it. Spending the night with the Fool had reminded him of those first cosy nights in the stables, curled up with the puppies and surrounded by their warmth and dreams. It was disappointing, then, that he saw no sign of the Fool at all that week. Burrich cut his hair. It itched and Fitz didn't see why he had to mourn a man he'd never met, but a look at the dark expression on Burrich's face silenced his protests. Even Chade was upset by Chivalry's death. The whole kingdom was mourning, and Fitz couldn't bring himself to feel much of anything at all beyond frustration and anger. In a way, it was good that he hadn't seen the Fool. Fitz didn't trust himself with his own anger. Worry came to the forefront as well, after Chade had finally summoned him. Someone had killed his father. This he knew with certainty, and it had been someone within the keep. He felt sure that it had been Queen Desire, but he had no proof. If he did not make himself useful, then he would be killed. Chade had made that clear. But what if they simply didn't want Chivalry's bastard hanging about the keep like a loose end? And the Queen had never liked the Fool... Fitz found himself hoping that the Fool would appear before him, because his worry ate at him.

    A recent Dream had the Fool on edge. He would almost rather have not known, but perhaps the Prophecy was punishing him for starting to put Fitz himself above the Catalyst. Either way, he had dreamed every heartbreak the boy would have to suffer in his life. He did not think one person could even have their heart broken so many times, but the Dreams never lied. Upon waking, a gnawing feeling worried at his stomach and he knew he had to find Fitz, especially since they had not spoken in days. Based on the hour, he checked Hod's first.

    Fitz had improved in his skills under Hod's tutelage and with Chade's encouragement. He was learning the quiet ways for killing, but the others were also necessary. He had never made much effort to learn the names of his practice partners. Hod always paired him with someone appropriate and that was enough. When he saw the Fool's approach he stepped back and held his hands up for quarter before dropping his wooden sword and running across the practice field. It was bad form, but he would take Hod's displeasure gladly.

    The Fool had expected to have to look for Fitz, or at least ask Hod to borrow him, and so was pleasantly surprised when he saw his friend barreling towards him. "Ho there, princeli--" His voice was cut off by an indignified shriek. "Your _hair!_ " Even the Dreams had not foreseen this catastrophe.

    Fitz skidded to a halt and touched the tufts of his hair self-consciously. "Burrich cut it," he explained. "A moment!" He called back to the yard, and then turned back to the Fool. He took the other boy by the forearm and pulled him a few paces further away. The relief he felt at seeing the Fool was immense. He was alright.

    The Fool cared little for the instruction Fitz had to get back to. With a stricken expression, he ran his hands through his friend's hair. Burrich hadn't even cut it nicely; the rich silk had been replaced by sharp tufts. It was offensive.

    Amused by his fixation on the length of his hair, Fitz made a face at the Fool's attentions. It had never been that short in his memory, and Fitz supposed that it must have been shocking. He bowed his head a bit so that the Fool could see, bastard prince before a Fool. "Short, isn't it? Burrich's completely bald. He hasn't even got eyebrows. Makes him look a bit frightening."

    "Serves him right," the Fool declared. "I cannot believe he would butcher you so." With the initial shock passed, he stepped back and removed his hands from his friend.

    "I look stupid," Fitz agreed. "Cha-... I don't think it was wise to cut my hair like this. Fool, has anything... odd been happening with King Shrewd? Or Queen Desire? Strange visitors or conversations or... I understand if you would rather not say."

    "I have heard nothing strange. Not even a shadow has spoken to King Shrewd, and Queen Desire has ever been tucked away in her chambers, chasing her death."

    "Alright... You should be cautious, if you can. It is no secret that you and I are close, and with your connection to the king, some may see you as an obstacle." Speaking of it that way was as close as Fitz could come to voicing his suspicions of his father's murder, and even that much was dangerous. He trusted the Fool, though.

    The Fool sighed. "I do not doubt that any time either of us spend in this court is a danger, but I can tell you this: King Shrewd has agreed not to kill you. I made sure he was aware of your value."

    Fitz was surprised by this revelation. The Fool had spoken of him to King Shrewd? It was admittedly a relief, but a bit disorienting nonetheless. He hadn't imagined that they spoke of him, though he realized now that it had been an unrealistic assumption. "Thank you, Fool... However, King Shrewd is not my only concern. Will you promise me that you'll be cautious?" A surge of protectiveness rose in him and he frowned down at the Fool. He wished that he could keep the other boy safe, but he could not even protect himself. He was reliant on Chade's protection and his worth as an assassin.

    "I told... I said that I don't want to do it anymore." Fitz thought that might please the Fool. "I cannot stop right away, it isn't safe, but I'm to think it over for a few months..." He did not know what he would be if he weren't Chade's apprentice. He did not know if he could stand to give his mentor up a second time. If this sort of killing was what his duty would be, though, he was not sure that he wanted to be a part of it.

    "Do you mean the...quiet work?" the Fool asked with a frown. That was the term he had heard the shadow man call it. He shook his head. "This is what you are, Fitz. The King needs you." As much as it pained him, he needed Fitz to carry through with his tasks: it was this that would help secure an heir to the throne. "The shade of the King's long reach needs you for the kingdom's secrets."

    Fitz blushed. He had never heard the Fool speak so frankly of such things, and he had underestimated the Fool's knowledge. For a time, there had been a bright hope inside of him that he would be able to escape that life. He had known that such a path would have been hazardous, though. Chade had warned him thoroughly. The Fool's gentle dissuasion sealed it. "I know," he said. "As long as I am needed, I live." The unspoken 'and when I am not, I will die' was heavy in the air between them. "You don't like it," Fitz stated.

    "Of course not," the Fool admitted. "But I cannot dispute the King's will. Besides, I imagine not all I do pleases you either."

    Fitz hadn't really thought about it before, and he frowned at the Fool in puzzlement. "It is true that I complain sometimes, but only ever in jest... This is a bit different from speaking in riddles. It's..." More serious? More ugly? He sighed. He wouldn't want the Fool to approve of such work. "You'll still be my friend?"

    "I promised you, and I meant it. I will always be your friend. I lo--loathe the idea of shunning you for any reason."

    Fitz was once again grateful for the Fool's quiet forgiveness and his persistent friendship, and he gave the Fool a smile. "So do I. You came out here for me, didn't you? You're rarely out of the keep that I can see. Did you need me for something? Hod probably thinks that you've brought a message for me from the king."

    "Not at all." The Fool wondered if he should tell Fitz the truth. "I...had a Dream, and I just wanted to make sure you're alright."

    "Oh," Fitz was relieved. "I'm fine." He took a glance back toward the practice courts. "We could leave, probably. Hod won't know that there was no message and I'll apologize later."

    The Fool glanced between Fitz and the courts behind him. He had been trying to keep with the plan the Dreams had laid out for him lately, since he had done so terribly at it before. However, he also had not seen Fitz in a while, and half a sword practice could not be so bad as that. "Perhaps for a few moments: where would you like to go?"

    "Anywhere," Fitz said, and truly meant it. "We could see your rabbits, or we could go to the gardens, or sneak off to town. I've missed you."

    The Fool "Not to town," he said quickly. No, he had no desire to see Molly Redskirts again. "I will follow you anywhere else."

    Fitz nodded, scratching at his bristly tufts of hair. "It would take a while to get to town. I don't want to scare your rabbits again, either. The gardens, then?"

    The Fool narrowed his eyes as Fitz fidgeted with his hair. "We must try to make the best of that," he commented. "I might be able to help. Do you have scissors in your chambers?"

    "I do," Fitz answered. "You think that you can fix it?"

    "Maybe." The Fool laughed. "Even I cannot perform miracles."

    "Well, you're welcome to try. It can't possibly get worse." Fitz smiled and led the way to his room.

    Once they arrived, the Fool pushed the chest at the foot of Fitz's bed over to the wash stand. He imagined it would have been heavy if it were full. He bade Fitz sit on it and, taking the scissors in one hand, ran his fingers through his friend's hair with the other (to gauge what he had to work with, of course).

    Fitz perched on his clothing chest awkwardly, and submitted himself to the Fool's attentions. He wasn't sure that there would be any way to make him look less like a mangy hound. "You said that you had a dream last night," Fitz remembered. "Was it one of the ones that comes true?"

    "Yes," said the Fool, cautiously snipping away at a few pieces that would stick up no matter which way they were brushed. "Although, I doubt it will be soon. It was quite a long Dream." He frowned at the reflection; Burrich ought to be hanged for this butchery.

    Fitz thought about how the Fool had come to him afterward, wanting to see if he were alright. "Was it... A bad one?" He asked, cautiously.

    There was no use in denying it, and he would be breaking his promise besides. "It was," the Fool admitted.

    Fitz released a breath he'd been holding and thought about the implications behind the Fool's words. "A bad thing is going to happen, but stopping the bad thing would be worse..."

    The Fool nodded. "Exactly." He evened out the left side of Fitz's hair, which was much longer than the right. Burrich was right handed, and Fitz must have been moving. "I can't tell you exactly what it is, because then you might try to stop it..."

    "Oh, thank you." Fitz said sarcastically but not maliciously. Truthfully he wasn't sure what to make of the Fool's magic. They had agreed not to lie to one another, and so he knew that the Fool believed his dreams to be prophetic. He was simply unsure as to whether or not to believe it himself. The Skill and the Wit might seem equally foreign to the Fool, though, and so he tried to understand. "If it's possible to change what your Dreams say will happen, then couldn't you change the horrible thing that might happen if they don't?"

    "I--" The Fool stopped his actions in surprise, thinking about this. He spoke carefully: "If something in a Dream was avoided or bypassed, then I imagine Fate would try to correct it in any way possible, but this is not encouragement to ignore the Dreams. If too many strands are present, they may become all tangled, much like a marionette."

    Fitz shook his head, forgetting for a moment that the Fool was cutting his hair. "I don't understand. Fate? Strands?"

    The Fool moved Fitz's head impatiently back into place and tried to resume his tidying. "The Dreams tell the future because they represent what is _destined_ to happen. No one should try to avoid their destiny."

    "Because a bad thing might happen," Fitz filled in. He wanted desperately to scratch at his neck, where small strands of hair had begun to tickle him. "Isn't life very boring? If you already know what's going to happen."

    "I don't know everything that's going to happen," the Fool corrected him, "simply the important points. I suppose it's rather like a play one might hear about at market: a great troupe is coming to perform the story of the Bull-knight and the Wolf-maiden. Anyone with half a brain knows they are going to fall in love, but they still go see because they want to know how it happens."

    Fitz nodded, once again forgetting about the scissors. "But this time, you know that something bad must happen. Isn't it hard?"

    "Harder than you could ever imagine," the Fool responded solemnly, though his tone was contrasted by the sharp look of alarm that passed over his face as he jerked the scissors away from Fitz's head.

    "Sorry," Fitz apologized. He sobered as he considered how difficult it must be for the Fool, and his mind was drawn back to the fruit knife incident. Giving Chade up had been the hardest thing he'd ever done, but it had been necessary. He wasn't sure that it was a perfect comparison, but he thought that he understood at least a little. "I'm sorry," he said again, more softly. "Is there anything that I can do that might help you?"

    "I simply need you to listen to me," the Fool told him, straightening the hairline at the back of Fitz's neck. "And heed my words even if they do not make sense to you."

    Fitz chuckled. "That sounds a lot like--... Something I've heard before."

    The Fool frowned. "From whom?"

    "Just someone," Fitz said. "I'm a tool, and it's not my place to question or try to understand my orders..." As he spoke, he began to frown. "Then, is that what I am to you too, Fool?"

    The Fool regarded his friend pityingly in the mirror. "Time and again I have told you, FitzChivalry, you are far dearer to me than that. You are the closest to my heart as any could possibly be. What else must I tell you so that you believe me?"

    Fitz looked away. "I know that, Fool. I do. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. You're the only person in the world who values me for who I am. I just, when you said that, it sounded... Forget that I said anything, please." He didn't want to think anymore on it either.

    The Fool reached around Fitz to set the scissors down, ruffled his hair to get all the loose pieces out, and kissed the top of his head. "It's alright. I understand your confusion. Sometimes I confuse even myself."

    Fitz blushed a bit at the kiss, but such contact between them had become so normal that he hardly thought about it. "You _are_ a confusing person. Um. If that's what I can do to help, I suppose that I'll try. Have you finished?"

    "Oh. Yes." The Fool came around in front of Fitz and fixed the areas where his hair was sticking up. "It looks a little better."

    "Thank you," Fitz said, looking up at the Fool. "I'd still like to try to understand. If your magic is as important to you as mine is to me, I ought to try."

    "I've told you as much as I can." The Fool sat down on the other side of the chest, beside his friend. Knowing Fitz's stubbornness, he tried to go on. "The Dreams...are things that I know must happen, but I don't know when or why or how it is resolved. For example..." He tried to think of something that would not reveal too much. "I know that Verity will ask you to do something very important, but I don't know what it will be, or why he will ask it, or when it will happen. Only that you must agree."

    Fitz 's eyes widened. "You know that? That's amazing. But with so little information, how do you ensure that it will happen? I could refuse."

    "That's the hard part," the Fool admitted. "I cannot be with you every minute of every day, obviously, so it is my job to urge you to take actions that will lead you to a position where you will agree of your own accord."

    "Like an advisor?" Fitz asked, thinking of Chade.

    "Of a sort. More like a...guide."

    Fitz was quiet for a moment, trying to wrap his mind around such abstract concepts. He wondered if Chade knew anything about this form of magic, and if he could help Fitz to understand. "I think that I understand as well as I'll ever be able to," he said after a time.

    "I think, eventually you might understand more," the Fool assured him with a smile, bumping him playfully with his shoulder

    Fitz smiled and nudged the Fool back. "If not, I'll just keep asking you to explain. Eventually you'll be sick of it."

    "You might be right, FitzChivalry," the Fool giggled. "But not for a very long time."

    Fitz ruffled his own hair, getting used to the feeling of it. The ends were much neater now, and no longer stuck up in patches. "We've got the rest of our lives, right?"

    The Fool definitely felt his heart do a little flip, and he wondered just how in time with Fitz's pulse it was. They had been synchronized when they were younger, so why not now? "Yes," he practically squeaked.

    Fitz gave the Fool a look, surprised at his change in tone. "Well," he said slowly. "Good then. The rest of our lives should be a long time. It will be a long time, won't it?" His frowned, suddenly concerned that perhaps whoever had killed his father would manage to do him too. Would the Fool see that as a bad thing that must occur? He didn't seem as upset as Fitz would have expected for such a situation.

    "A very long time," the Fool confirmed. "You're strong, Fitz. Some days, I don't even think death could stop you."

    "If you say so. I'm not that strong, though." Fitz rubbed one of his sore arms. Hod had been working them hard of late. "Speaking of which, I should probably go back to practice," he said, regretfully.

    "Oh. Yes. I nearly forgot I was keeping you from it. Well--" the Fool patted Fitz's cheek lightly and stood up, heading for the door. "I won't impede you any longer, my lord." He flashed his friend a dazzling smile and slipped out the door.

    Fitz shook his head at the Fool's behaviour, but was very used to his eccentricities. They were even charming, in an odd way. Fitz rose and examined himself in the looking glass. The Fool had done an excellent job. Already planning his excuses for Hod, he left at a trot back toward the practice courts.

 

_“I do not know when I stopped thinking of Fitz as just my Catalyst and started thinking of him as my soulmate. Perhaps there was no distinct occasion. I may have always known; after all, Fate truly had tied our souls together. I like to think that falling in love with him was part of my Destiny too.”_

_\-- Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet_


	11. On Commencement and Companionship - Offerings

_ When something is painful to know, is it better not knowing? For years, my anger and hurt overwhelmed any curiosity I might have had about my father. He hadn’t, to my knowledge at the time, shown any interest in knowing the bastard son he’d left behind, so why should I have shown any interest in him? It was as though by denying him any place in my thoughts, I could somehow hurt him the way he’d hurt me. The Fool, Chade, and Verity were each understanding in their own ways, of my childish bitterness. I regret it somewhat now. My father was a man, and perhaps a better one than many.  _

_     Conversely, there have also been times that I have regretted the knowing of a thing. It was not any bravery on my part that caused me many times to seek that knowledge. Stupidity, perhaps, or a lack of caution would be a better description. In one case, at least, it was childish adoration and affection that made loose my tongue.  _

_     That time, I wished that I could forget. Later, I regretted that wish wholeheartedly. Knowing or not knowing, it seems that no matter which side I err on, I am left with something to regret.  _

__

 

    Weeks passed, and Fitz's hair began to lengthen from prickly stubble to something that at least did a better job at covering his head. There were no attempts on his life that he was aware of, and he gradually began to relax his guard. Chade was oddly quiet, and Burrich's dark mood continued, but aside from those changes, to Fitz, life after his father's death was very much like his life had been before. He had his lessons with Burrich in the mornings, and weapons in the afternoons. Occasionally he would be given a list of things to find in town, and he found himself looking forward to these occasional outings. He did not see Molly every visit, but he endeavoured to at least walk by her chandlery every time. Each time he saw her, he smiled and he was Newboy. He allowed her to believe that he was the scribe's apprentice, and he told her of harmless gossip that had nothing to do with political intrigue or murder. His hair, he excused as an accident involving some wax, and he felt lucky that she accepted it. It was pleasant, not being the bastard. Nevertheless, it felt uncomfortable lying to her. Always on edge that he would make some mistake, and wondering how she would react if she were to know the truth. Their friendship grew, but he found himself missing the closeness he had with the Fool, who had accepted even the assassin's apprentice. 

    Fitz did not think of his father at all, except one morning when he received a summons from Prince Verity. After making himself as presentable as he could, he followed the page to Verity's map room. 

    Prince Verity Farseer had suddenly found himself saddled with half of Chivalry's responsibilities, which he and his father had split. However, as a King already had more duties than a Prince, Verity shouldered more than his fair share. He continued on with his own areas of expertise as well, and the latter half of Regal's, which his younger brother constantly ignored. He supposed some might have called it 'burning the candle at both ends,' but to him it felt as though he had dropped the entire candle into an open flame. 

    As such, Verity had not had an opportunity to speak to Chiv's son. Though his responsibilities had not lessened since then, Verity did not think it was fair to keep the boy waiting. On the morning he summoned him to his map room, he ordered surplus breakfast to be brought up, and cleared an extra chair of the parchments that had adorned it. He still had his head bent over a map as he waited for his nephew, however.

    Fitz waited until he was announced, and then entered cautiously. The room smelled of inks and old parchment, and it was filled with a clutter of things that seemed to have no discernible order. Prince Verity was there, seemingly perfectly content in the mess. A small space had been cleared for a breakfast tray, but it was ignored by the prince who seemed busy at some task. Fitz had not expected Verity to be the scholarly sort, and he found himself intensely curious. "Your highness, you summoned me?" he asked.

    Verity snorted. No, that would not do at all. "Having you call me 'your highness' is just as unthinkable as having Chiv do it. Please, just call me Verity." He had never been one for royal formalities anyways. Gesturing at a chair, he invited Fitz to make himself comfortable: "Have a seat, and something to eat if you haven't."

    Fitz frowned, taken aback by Verity's informality. He couldn't disobey a direct order, but the name felt very strange on his lips when he replied with: "Yes, Verity." He went over to the seat and perched on it. While he sat, he looked at the map that was spread before the Prince. It was very finely done, and Fitz was impressed. Verity had always been the nicest of his relatives, and Fitz found himself relaxing.

    "You might recall," Verity began, leaning back in his chair and locking his fingers over his stomach, "that a few weeks ago I promised to speak to you about your father. My own father does not believe this wise, but he has no command over the words I choose to speak. I believe it is your right to know about Chivalry: be it good or bad. I am only sorry it had to happen under these circumstances." He looked at his nephew in earnest to see how he was taking this.

    Regarding his uncle and trying to gauge his mood for some indication as to how he was expected to respond, Fitz shifted in his seat. He could see only kindness in his dark eyes, and a sort of solid strength as well. "I remember, my prince. Verity." He was not sure how he felt about this encounter. He had put his father behind him and shoved away all of the thoughts of 'could have been'. People kept assuming that he would want to know about his father. He had been angry about it at first. Chade had looked at him with pity after an outburst, and that had made him even angrier. That anger had faded, but even now Fitz was unsure whether he would want to know about the man who'd abandoned him.

    "So, after some time for us both to sort our thoughts, I present to you now the opportunity to ask anything of me regarding your father, and I will do my best to answer." It was far kinder than saying he had not had the time before, but he was certain that Fitz was intelligent enough to understand the unspoken sentiment.

    Fitz pressed his lips together and looked down at the desk. Did Verity think that he could tell Fitz whether his father had thought about him at all? Whether his father had regretted creating him, or loved his mother? Verity was looking at him with nothing but kindness, and he did not think that he could ask those questions without doing insult to his uncle's good will. 

    "Thank you," Fitz said stiffly. "But I don't think that I need to know anything about him." He had meant to refuse politely, but he heard his own boyish sullenness and felt ashamed.

    Verity tried not to be hurt by that. He blinked and shifted his focus to the map on his desk. "You know, he looked the exact same when he felt slighted. The lowered eyelids, clenched jaw, straight spine...even that one corner of the mouth that turns down. Just the one." He looked back at the boy. "I'm sorry if I've offended you."

    Fitz clenched his jaw again, noticed it, and then deliberately tried to undo the expression. The result was complicated. "Forgive my rudeness, your--Verity. I just don't see what good knowing of him will do me now. He's dead, and I won't ever get to see him." 

    Though he wanted to protest, Verity forced himself to take a few deep breaths and try to see this from Fitz's point of view. He thought he succeeded. "I understand your anger," he said, "and if you would sooner not know about Chivalry, then I will respect that. But my offer still stands, and it always will. I will never ask you why you wish to know a particular thing, if such a question strikes you, and I will be honest in regards to his life. Now--" He changed the subject before Fitz could protest-- "perhaps you could tell me of yourself? I don't know you as well as I should."

    Fitz felt relieved at the change in topic, and a bit guilty for the way he'd spoken to his uncle and prince. It was a relief too that there were no more expectations regarding his grief for his father. He could ask, or he could not. He needed no reasons. Fitz blinked as he tried to process the kindness, and felt a rush of warm gratitude for Verity's understanding. He relaxed a bit in his seat and looked up at Verity searchingly. Why would he want to know about him? What could he possibly say? 

    "I like horses, my prince. Verity. And dogs. I know you've always treated your hounds well. Burrich says that you've a good hand with them..." He realized that he had strayed from the topic already, and forced himself to call to mind Chade's method for reporting. "I'm learning horsemanship from Burrich, swordplay from Hod, and my letters from Fedwren. He gives me copy work sometimes and says my lettering is good." He did not mention his nighttime lessons from Chade. He wondered if Verity knew. He scanned the prince's face for any sign that he noticed the omission.

    Verity simply raised an eyebrow with a bemused expression. "Yes, I know these things. These are the things that befit a young man of royal blood. I would like to know about the boy. I want to know  _ Fitz _ ." He hoped that his nephew would not take this as an intrusion of privacy.

    Fitz ducked his head. "I..." He was unsure where to start. Who was the boy Fitz? "What would you like to know?" 

    Verity calmly considered this question. He reached over to pour two cups of tea and handed one to his nephew. "You said you like horses and hounds. That is a start. Do you have any of your own? Where have you gone together? Have you any other friends?" His questions were meant as a gentle push towards self-discovery. He would have to speak to his father about working the boy too hard: he had no sense of self beyond his duty to the crown.

    Fitz accepted the tea, feeling appalled that the crown prince had served him like a page boy. "Thank you," he mumbled and then held the cup in his hands. "I used to have a dog once, but...not anymore. I have a horse named Sooty. She's very gentle and calm. Um. We've ridden into the woods where you like to hunt, but we stay mostly in the exercise yard. I have one other friend: the Fool. We've been friends for years." He thought of mentioning Molly, but felt rather embarrassed about it. 

    "The Fool, hm?" Verity tipped his head with a small smile. "I suppose that would explain why you were in his company on the road that night. Some would call you brave for that--those who are afraid of him, I mean." He sat back once more, taking a drink from his cup. "There are many more of those than both you and I know are deserved. I believe he is doing the same as the rest of us--trying to keep his head up while the tide of the court tries to drown us."

    "Some children were chasing him and throwing stones once. They're afraid of his differences, but he's very kind. If they'd just try to know him, they would know that they've no reason to fear him," Fitz said with a frown.

    "I know," said Verity. "He proves to be elusive, though, even for me. I think you are fortunate to know him so well, though I've no idea what made him decide you were the one."

    "I haven't either, to be honest," Fitz confided. "I'm sure that if you talked with him, it would be fine. You could ask him about his rabbits."

    A genuine smile lit Verity’s face this time. They were finally getting somewhere; he was glad Fitz felt comfortable enough to open up to him. "He has rabbits? That, I did not know."

    Fitz nodded. "He made a place for them between the wall and the keep. They were in the gardens, and people kept chasing them off, so he felt sorry for them." He returned Verity's smile as he spoke, looking happy for the first time in their conversation. Verity seemed interested in the Fool, and Fitz was glad. The Fool needed more allies at court. He was also glad to share something that made him so happy. He hoped that the Fool wouldn't mind.

    "How thoughtful," Verity mused. "Perhaps we could build them a proper hutch, at some point. Though, I would have to broach the subject with him." Fitz seemed to get genuine joy from the Fool, and Verity's supposition about being close with someone of a like age was correct. "It is good to be able to trust someone," he said. "I am glad you have such a person."

    Fitz was glad too. He wasn't sure how he would have managed without the Fool. He took a sip of his tea and looked at his uncle. Cautiously, he quested out toward him and felt the life burning strongly inside of him. Verity felt very kind and warm, but also fatigued and sad in a lingering way that Fitz supposed had to do with Chivalry's death. He was reminded again that Chivalry had been Verity's brother, and not just the faceless man who'd abandoned his son. How could Verity not hate Fitz for having cost him his brother? 

    He withdrew from the contact before he could find that answer. He brought his mind back to the conversation at hand. "I could ask him about the hutch for you, if you liked. I'm sure that he'll be pleased...I do trust him." It was true, Fitz realized. If the Fool were to ask anything of him, he would do it. He trusted the Fool with his secrets, and he would trust him with his life. "He has always been a good friend."

    Verity thought he felt a whisper of something in the back of his mind: not the Skill, but a presence nonetheless. A small line appeared between his brows, but the presence was gone before he could place it. He wondered if it came from the boy. "If you think it will be a question better received from you than from me, then by all means," he told Fitz cautiously. "My father mentioned to me that you were... _ quite _ dear to him, so I imagine any suggestion you make will please him." He put the presence from his mind: he was tired and overworked of late, most likely paranoid. "I understand if you don't wish to keep an aging man company. After all, you only have so long before you have your own adult responsibilities, and trust me, they're quite boring."

    Fitz stood, and set his teacup down on the tray. "You've taken on more responsibilities since my father died," Fitz observed. He could not help but feel sorry for his uncle after having briefly glimpsed his emotions through his Wit. "You seem tired. It would be good if you were able to rest. Burrich says that both man and beast will work harder if they've been given the proper care and are allowed to rest when they're exhausted. He says that pushing a horse too hard will cost more than the time it takes to let it breathe a while." He looked away, thinking that perhaps he'd overstepped his place.

    Verity smiled sagely, although he felt a little sorry for the boy, who was clearly used to being owned by--and afraid of--his superiors. "Burrich is right," he said simply. "Thank you for your consideration, FitzChivalry."

    "Good day, Verity," Fitz said, bowing. Having been excused, he left the cosy map room and ran their conversation through his mind. Verity was kind. Kinder than Regal by far, but even kinder than King Shrewd. Shrewd had bought his loyalty with food and an education, but Verity had made no attempt to bargain with him. Instead, he'd been patient with his surly behaviour, gentle with his questions, and interested in him for himself. Ever since Verity had given Fitz his old toys all those years ago, Fitz had held some measure of affection for him. He felt that affection grow as their latest interaction settled in his mind. Verity had even shown interest in the Fool. 

    Fitz found himself craving the boy's company, and his feet took him in a wandering path while he thought about where the Fool might be found. It was usually the Fool who surprised him in the corridors or at the stables.

    The Fool was sitting in a wide windowsill, one leg pulled up to his chest and the other stretched out along its length. One arm was draped loosely over the bent leg, and his head was turned to look out the window, though he did not see the gardens. He was looking through them, thinking through his Dreams and the Prophecies he knew from his predecessors. So consumed by this was he that he did not hear Fitz's quiet footsteps.

    Fitz froze when he caught a glimpse of the Fool's bright motley and felt a mischievous smile spreading across his face at seeing the Fool so distracted. He did not want to startle the other boy such that he toppled out of the window, but he was pleased to finally have the chance to sneak up on him. A prickle of a predator's excitement went up his spine as he crept closer, keeping to the shadows and as close to the wall as he could. His careful footsteps were as close to soundless as he could manage. It was a more innocent implementation of the skills he'd learned from Chade. When he'd gotten close enough to the Fool, he reached out with a darting hand to take the Fool by the arm. "Ho there, Fool!" he cried in an imitation of the Fool that was not at all good, but close enough.

    For possibly the first time in his life, the Fool was so startled that he jumped. Fitz's hold on his arm pulled him away from the window instead of out of it, and he ended up toppling off the sill and crashing into the other boy, though by this time he was laughing. He looked down at Fitz, whom he had landed on, and grinned, his heart still racing. "You got me."

    Fitz winced as he lost his footing and met the stones of the floor with a thud, but he grinned up at the Fool with his merriment dancing in his eyes. "I got you," He confirmed, triumphantly. He'd put an arm around the other boy as they fell to steady him, and still held his arm with a firm grip. He let go with a faint blush. "I was lucky that you were so distracted. Does something trouble you, Fool?"

    "Not at all," said the Fool, sitting up. "I meant to watch the birds, truly I did, but I got distracted." He grinned and decided he should probably stand, since he was currently sitting on his friend. He got up and offered a hand, which Fitz took and got to his feet, then used the motion to pull the Fool into a hug. 

    "I'm happy that I found you," he said. "Do you have time now?" His conversation with Verity and his realization regarding his trust for the Fool had left him in a rare good mood. He had people who cared about him, and people to care about in return. The Fool was his favourite person, he decided. He didn't think that he could ever repay the Fool for all he'd put into their friendship.

    The hug took the Fool by surprise, but he returned it. Nor did he let go when Fitz questioned him. If it was possible, he decided, he would hug Fitz forever. "I have time," he confirmed, his voice low right by the other boy's ear. "What is it?"

    "I just wanted to see you," Fitz said, lowering his voice to account for their proximity as well. He stepped back from their embrace, but kept his hands on the Fool's arms. "Do you want to go to our spot on the beach?"

    Since they had not been back there together since the first time, years ago, the Fool thought that was an excellent idea. "Yes, I think that would be lovely," he agreed.

    Fitz was pleased by the Fool's agreement. That day was one of the best he could remember. The Fool had not spoken a word, but he had still earned Fitz's friendship easily. "Good," he smiled. While they walked, he could not help but drift back to his and Verity's conversation. It was good to have someone to trust. It was good to have someone with whom he could be himself completely, without lying or dissembling.

    Out of habit, the Fool's hand drifted towards Fitz's, and he interlocked their fingers. It was the end of spring, but the sun had dried most of the moisture from the ground. The Fool snuck occasional glances at his friend and noted that not only had his hair grown back out a bit, but it had also regained its shine; the sunlight seemed to dance over the other boy.

    Fitz gripped the Fool's hand, and then glanced down at their twined fingers. His gaze drifted up to study his friend. As usual, the other boy was clothed in a ridiculous costume complete with ribbons and far too many colours. It was easy, sometimes, to see the costume more than the boy, and so Fitz looked carefully. The Fool's build was delicate, but Fitz knew him to be stronger than one would expect for such a small person. His hair was lighter than air, and floated around his head where it stuck out from beneath his hat. It was as white as the rest of him, but the Fool was not completely without colour. Fitz had seen him with red on his cheeks, and had marked the faint blue of his eyes. Fitz did not mind the otherworldliness of his friend, and it angered him that the people of the Keep could not see beyond it. The Fool was a good person, and besides that, his appearance was not so frightening. Not at all. Fitz looked away again when he realized that he'd been staring.

    The Fool had already caught him looking, and the pink tinge that Fitz had just been thinking of rose to his cheeks in full force. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and he knew that if he tried to say something clever he would end up sounding foolish. He bit his lip instead, dropping his gaze. He did not think Fitz had ever looked at him quite like that before

    Clearing his throat, Fitz said: "I spoke with Prince Verity today. He said that we could build a hutch for your rabbits, if you were alright with that."

    The Fool looked up in surprise. "My rabbits?" he asked. "They aren't my rabbits. They're not anyone's rabbits, they're just rabbits. And they seem to be quite happy in the burrow they've made for themselves. It is a nice offer, and I suppose you could try to ask them, but I think moving them without their permission would just frighten them."

    "Oh," Fitz said, suddenly feeling rather wrong-footed. "Well, that's alright then. You're probably right about them being happy as they are."

    The Fool felt as though perhaps he had appeared ungrateful. "I hope you did not seek Prince Verity out on my behalf. If you did, I appreciate it, but I think he has more important things to contend with."

    "I didn't," Fitz replied a bit defensively. He'd taken the Fool's words as a mild rebuke. "He summoned me to ask if I had any questions about my father. I didn't, and so he asked me about myself and I mentioned our friendship."

    "Oh." That silenced the Fool for a moment. "Thank you." He was oddly touched that Fitz had seen fit to mention him to Prince Verity, especially when there were more important aspects to his life: his horse, his visits to town, his good standing with the cooks. He also wondered why Fitz had not wanted to know about his father, but his friend seemed touchy about that subject so he did not mention it.

    Fitz was mollified, and he gave the Fool a sheepish smile. "You're welcome. I hope you don't mind that I did. Only, Prince Verity was interested and it felt good to be able to talk about you. If you'd rather I didn't, I understand." The Fool was very private about some things, after all. It was difficult to tell what would be taken as an invasion of his privacy.

    "I don't mind," the Fool assured him. "It was your story to tell too, since you were there. I shared it with you, and so it became a part of you. I cannot fault you for sharing a part of yourself." He gave Fitz's hand a faint squeeze to accompany these words.

    "I'm glad that you don't mind," Fitz said, relieved. "Be careful of the branches," he cautioned as they left the main road. He went ahead, leading the way and doing his best to find a path that would cause his beribboned friend the least amount of difficulty. Their joined hands made it difficult for him to hold the branches aside, but letting go would have been unthinkable. He kept a careful eye on the Fool in case he stumbled on the steep slope, prepared to catch him if he did.

    The Fool had an easier time getting through the branches than he had before, both because he was more coordinated and because he had taken the route a few more times since then. He ducked under the branches expertly and let out a satisfied chuckle when they broke through to the beach.

    Fitz looked out on the beach with a pleased expression. The air was just beginning to warm, hinting at the summer to come, and the sound of the waves was soothing. He was glad that he hadn't suggested going into town. As nice as it had been to see the Fool's eyes light up at the variety of wares on display, town was busy and crowded, and Fitz was glad that they could be alone. "Should we look for shells?"

    "We should keep a weather eye out for all sorts of things, not just those we expect to find," the Fool replied, slipping his hand out of Fitz's and walking the short way to the water's edge. He took off his boots and stockings again, tossing them further up the beach where the tide could not reach them.

    Fitz kicked off his boots as well and followed. He resolved to find an excellent treasure that he could give to the Fool. The number of trinkets the Fool had gifted him with far outnumbered the things he'd given the Fool. He smiled as he thought of the small collection. Each item in it had a story, and he remembered the time he'd gotten each one. Chade's disbelief and comment of 'unless he's trying to woo you' came to mind, and Fitz found himself blushing. Certainly the Fool made comments that he wouldn't have expected from anyone else, but it was the Fool. It was normal between them. Even comments regarding his supposed beauty, Fitz had come to accept even if he did not see whatever it was that the Fool saw in him. He stole a glance at the Fool. 

    "Fool," he ventured, unsure if he would get a response. The question was posed artlessly, as any child might. "Are you a boy or a girl?"

    For the second time that day, the Fool was caught off guard. "This seems an odd time in our relationship to be asking me such a question," he replied, dodging the query with far more tact than Fitz had posed it with. Why did he want to know, anyways? Was it important? The Fool already knew that he meant a great deal to Fitz, so would one answer change that over another?

    "I suppose you're right," Fitz agreed. "I've always thought that you're a boy. Only, you're rather pretty, so I thought that I might be wrong." He stubbornly fought the urge to look away while he said it, though his awkwardness was plain in his tone. If the Fool could say things like that about him without embarrassment, then Fitz could too.

    "I--" The Fool giggled, going redder than he had before and covering his mouth with a hand. "You think I'm pretty?" That was far more important than whether Fitz thought he was a boy or a girl.

    Fitz felt his face go scarlet and he gave up the battle against looking away. "I said so, didn't I? You didn't need to laugh."

    "I'm not laughing at you!" the Fool protested, going back to sifting through the sand. His blush was not dissipating anytime soon. "I'm flattered..."

    Fitz, in the course of his looking away, saw something. Just a bit of something shimmering in the sand. He knelt down to uncover it. It was nothing special--just another shell--but Fitz liked it. He went to the water to clean the sand away and then held it up to the light. The pearly white interior gleamed with blues, greens, and reds when examined closely, and it reminded him of the Fool. He offered it to the other boy (or girl, he wondered) proudly.

    "Oh..." The Fool accepted the shell timidly, also holding it up to the light and examining the veins of colour going through it. "It's beautiful," he complimented sincerely. He kissed Fitz on the cheek in gratitude. "I found this, but it isn't much." He opened his other hand to reveal a pearl, colours swirling through it.

    Fitz had just begun to lose his blush, but it came back in full force. He could feel his heart beating. Determinedly, he fixed his attention onto what the Fool was showing him. "A pearl," he said. His voice shook and he cleared his throat. "That was lucky."

     The Fool shrugged. "I suppose you're my good luck charm," he replied. He thought he recognized the tremor in Fitz's voice, but he could scarcely dare to hope.

    Though Fitz did not think of himself as a brave person, he summoned up his courage and gave the Fool a kiss on the cheek. He swallowed around the nervous lump in his throat and searched the Fool's face to see if that had been alright.

    The Fool felt suddenly very warm, and it was not because of the sun. "Fitz?" he asked in a small voice.

    Fitz ducked his head and then sat, suddenly very conscious of how close he was to the Fool. He wondered if he imagined the way the air seemed to vibrate between them. He took a shallow breath. "Was that alright?" he asked, desperately hoping that it was but understanding that the Fool was particular about touch.

    Sitting down beside FItz, the Fool rested his head on the other boy's shoulder. "Yes," he said, "that was...yes." Another small giggle left him, and he closed his eyes. After a silence, he asked: "Why do you want to know?"

    Fitz exhaled in relief and, emboldened, wondered if he should put his arm around the Fool. He lacked the courage for that, and so he took the boy's hand instead, in their familiar way. The Fool's hand was cool and felt very delicate in his, and that made him sit a bit straighter. "Of course I would want to know. I wouldn't want to upset you." He tightened his grip minutely and he wondered if the Fool would mind him doing it again. That would involve dislodging the Fool from his place on his shoulder, though, and he found that he rather liked the weight of the Fool's head resting there, so he tilted his head to rest it upon the Fool's. They were very close together. They'd been much closer before, many times, but this time felt different.

    "I don't care what you call me, Fitz," the Fool told him. "You won't upset me, and it doesn't matter anyways. If you like me, then you like me. I know I wouldn't care if  _ you _ were a boy or a girl."

    "Oh," Fitz said, realizing that the Fool had returned to their earlier topic. "Well, I do. Like you, I mean. I like you very much. You're kind, and you like to make people laugh. Even when you make mock of someone, it's to teach them something. You're clever. I bet that you could talk circles around anyone in court, and I've never met anyone who knew so much about so many places. You're gentle with animals, and you care about them the way a mother would care for her babe. Few people in the keep would think twice about whether a few rabbits had enough to eat. I like that about you. You're brave as well, to try new things like going into town or riding Sooty with me."

    "I like you very much too," the Fool replied. He sat up and looked Fitz in the eye. In doing so, he was reminded of all the Dreams he had experienced through those eyes. All of the heartbreaks, including..."Molly," he said, the excitement rushing out of him.

    Fitz frowned. "What about Molly?" he asked. That had certainly come out of nowhere.

    "I like you an awful lot," the Fool reiterated. It felt as though he was wilting inside. "But...I think Molly likes you an awful lot too. And...I know you like her, too." Selfishly, the Fool thought that perhaps if Fitz confessed to her and she wasn't amourous of him, that would be enough to break his heart. And then that part of the Prophecy would be fulfilled, and the Fool would not lose Fitz to Molly.

    Fitz's frown deepened and he shifted so that he faced the Fool directly. "I like her well enough, but I don't like her anywhere near the same way that I like you." How could he make the Fool understand? He hated the way the Fool seemed to droop, and he sought to reassure him. "I...You're my favourite person, Fool. You have been for as long as I've known you. I think that you're wonderful for all those reasons I've said and more. I don't know how I could have managed so many things without you. I love that I can be myself around you. Just Fitz, and not Newboy or anything else. I don't have that with Molly."

    The Fool sighed. This was going to be harder than he thought. He suddenly cursed his duties as Prophet. If he had not known about any of Fitz's destiny, perhaps he could have properly expressed his love. But then, he would endanger everyone in the world, and the Fool could never bring himself to do that. He sighed, dropping his face into his hands. "I love you too," he mumbled, his voice muffled. When he looked up, he sighed again. "But I will always be connected to King and court. Molly is separate from all that."

    Fitz could not understand the Fool's upset, and he took the Fool's hands in his. They were cold, he noticed, and he hoped that he would warm them. His heart had soared at hearing that the Fool returned his affections, but he was confused by his later protest. "But I am connected to King and court as well, Fool. You cannot have forgotten who I am or what I do to serve King Shrewd.

    "But you want out," the Fool reminded him. "I can't get you out. In fact, I must confess I can only drag you deeper." He felt like he was going to cry. He was  _ so close _ , and he knew Prophets and Catalysts were supposed to be joined. He could only hope that he had not proceeded wrong. If this drove Fitz away for good, it would have been all for nothing, and he would have been better off not saying anything at all.

    The Fool's distress only seemed to grow, and Fitz felt at a loss. "You and I both know that I'll never be free of life at court. They would kill me if I left. Fool, but none of that matters. You make being here so much better, and..." Fitz's mouth went dry, but seeing the Fool's naked distress made the difficult words pour out of him. "And I love you, Fool. You said that you love me too, so isn't that good?"

    "It  _ is _ good," the Fool said. He hated to have to turn to this, but there was no other way. "I know you are going to love Molly with all your heart." Barely audible, he whispered: "I Dreamed it."

    Fitz frowned. "Well, I don't. I love you."

    The Fool dropped his head into his hands again, a choking sob leaving him. "You can't! I didn't mean for it to happen this way!"

    Fitz's frown turned to one of concern, and he scooted forward to pull the Fool into his arms. "Shh..." He hushed, feeling useless and alarmed at the Fool's tears. He felt a surge of protectiveness, but with no enemy to fight off the only thing he could do was rub the Fool's back comfortingly. "I'm sorry," he said, with a touch of desperation in his voice. "I'm sorry, Fool, please don't be upset." He pressed a kiss to the Fool's head the way the Fool had done to him several times before.

    The Fool leaned into Fitz, letting his tears flow freely. "Please Fitz, just...just forget it all. I'll always be here, I promised you that. I meant it." He sniffled and looked up. "Remember how I told you you had to listen to me? Even if I don't make sense. Please, listen to me now."

    "But I can't, Fool." Fitz protested, he gripped the Fool tightly. If he let go, he worried that the Fool would run. The tears in the Fool's eyes woke an echoing pain in his own chest. "How can I forget when you're the most important person to me? If you're afraid that something terrible will happen, then I promise that I'll protect you. I'll stop it from happening somehow. Just tell me how to stop it, and I'll do it without question, but I can't forget about loving you. It's impossible. I'll do whatever it takes, so please choose me, Fool. You chose me once before and--" The force of his realization knocked the breath from him. Fitz blinked and then swallowed. He looked down at the Fool. "Oh." He swallowed again. "You can't, can you? That's why..." A heavy weight settled itself in the pit of Fitz's stomach. The realization was a hard one, and it felt like a physical blow. Twining around the knife's edge pain was a coil of guilt that hissed at him. He'd been forcing the Fool to choose. He knew the pain that caused.

    The Fool dropped his head back onto Fitz's shoulder. "That's why," he confirmed. "You know how important the Dreams are. And I promise you, when Molly--if things don't--um...no matter what happens with Molly, I'll be right beside you." His words had a hollow cadence, which matched the void in the pit of his stomach. He knew that giving this up now would mean that he would never get it back.

    Fitz rocked back on his haunches, still holding onto the Fool but loosely. He exhaled, and his breath shook. It had been a mistake. He shut his eyes and in that moment he regretted ever having given voice to his damnable feelings. He wished that he could reverse time and take it all back. Then the Fool would not have been hurt, and he would not have to know that the Fool wouldn't choose him. He could not possibly come first: not for his mother who couldn't marry with a child at her skirts; nor his father who'd never known him; nor Burrich who could not accept him with his Wit. He knew, too, that if Chade were ordered to kill him, then he would do it. It was a shocking reminder of his own unimportance to be rejected by the one he had thought with certainty would be the exception to that rule. He had been mistaken. And he had hurt his friend, as well. His heart clenched, because he knew that he could not lose whatever goodness could remain between he and the Fool without breaking. "It's alright," he said, numbly. The pain had given way to nothingness. He only knew that he had to keep what he could, or risk losing all. "You can forget that I said anything."

    "I will never forget, Fitz," the Fool promised him. "And what I feel will never dwindle." He locked eyes with Fitz, hoping the other boy could see his sincerity there. "When the time is right, I'll be waiting for you."

    Fitz met the Fool's gaze, but his own expression was dazed. He shook his head, brow furrowed. "How can you expect me to forget it all, when you won't? Why?" He had stepped beyond his place, and asked for more than he could have. He knew that. He felt anger then, and it was easier than the pain. He shook his head again and pushed the Fool away, not roughly but putting him at arm's length. "I don't believe you. I can't. I told you that I would stop whatever terrible thing it is that you fear, so why? If you cared as much as you say you do... I don't believe you."

    "You don't believe me." It wasn't even a question. The Fool knew he deserved that, but it still hurt beyond measure. "I suppose that is for the best, since--" And gathering all his courage, he spoke the words he knew might sever the cord too sharply-- "since it was a jest, anyways."

    Uncomprehending, Fitz stared. A small part of him had hoped that the Fool would prove his words to be true. Even if the Fool had lied to spare his feelings, he had not expected this. "A jest," he repeated. He shook his head in denial. "You were upset. You were crying."

    The Fool wiped the last of the tears from his eyes. He sat up straighter, forcing himself not to break down. He had not only lied to Fitz again, which he had promised not to do, but he had done the worst thing anyone could do to anyone else. "I'm a thespian, Fitz. I can cry on command." That was true, at least, but it gave him a nauseated feeling.

    Fitz stood still, even held his breath. His eyes searched the Fool's face and his demeanour for some sign of deception. He did not want to believe it of his friend, but he felt his certainty waver. Amid the uncertainty, he felt a small bit of hope. "How...If you did jest, then how much? Which part?"

    The Fool couldn't answer that, lest he betray himself again. He simply hung his head, letting his shoulders droop

    Fitz blinked rapidly and turned his gaze to the sand between them. His throat felt tight, and he fought for a few shallow breaths while his mind worked. Several moments passed and at last he reached forward and pulled the Fool into another embrace. "That was a poor jest, Fool," he said, softly, and his voice cracked on the words. "I understand, so, please don't cry. I promised that I wouldn't make you choose."

    The Fool hugged Fitz back. He knew he did not understand, but it was best this way. The Fool hadn't lost his Catalyst, and now he would run to Molly. And as he had promised, he would be there when things didn't work out. "I'm sorry."

    "I'm sorry too," Fitz said, and he was. He shut his eyes and wished that they could both forget, wished that he could return to the beginning of their day so that they could hunt for treasure peaceably and enjoy their adventure together. "Let's go back," he said. "You must be cold."

    As he pulled away from the embrace, the Fool pressed the pearl he had found into the palm of Fitz's hand. "You're right."

    Fitz closed his hand around it and then slipped it into his pocket. His puppy-like exuberance had left him, and it was with a heavy heart that he led the way back up the hill to the keep. He held the Fool's hand in his the whole time and wished that things had been different.

    The Fool barely held Fitz's hand back, and their fingers were not intertwined this time. Once they returned to the Keep, he bade Fitz goodbye and slunk off to King Shrewd's chambers.

 

_     “My biggest regret, to this day, is the way I handled Fitz’s first admission of affection towards me. In fact, I believe I was the cause of one of his earliest heartbreaks. Despite his reassurances that he does not fault me for it, and his insistence that his further actions more than made us even, I am at times seized by a despair so great regarding this instance that I find myself incapable of doing anything throughout the day. _

_     “I do not like to think of the more suitable courses of action I could have taken in this occurrence, as this usually only depresses me further and causes me to curse my own stupidity.” _

_ … _

_     “For the longest time, I did not know that Fitz spoke of me nearly as much as he did. Even after certain unfortunate events drove us apart, his dedication to me remained. I also did not know that Prince Verity had picked up on the thread of my affection for him. By reading Fitz’s accounts, I have realized that Verity also seemed to be the only one that did not view these affections with any animosity.” _

_ \-- Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are very sorry.


	12. On Commencement and Companionship - Resurgence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slight deviation from canon here!

_     The Fool is tidier than I am. That is not to say that I live so slovenly or negligently, but he does tut over the messy way in which I stow my clothing and he uses more water than I ever thought possible. The Fool takes a genuine pleasure in the world around him, and he seems to enjoy adjusting it to suit his fancy. He enjoys rich fabrics, tasteful colours, and things of beauty. His fanciful carvings run riot over all of our wooden furniture. The Fool is not concerned only with superficial things-- that would be the last way in which I would describe him-- what I mean is that he is able to derive pleasure from creating art and beauty around himself. _

_     The Fool enjoys playing with exotic spices when he cooks, and is fond of fresh fish. He is immensely curious about a wide range of subjects, and that has led him to study with a passion that would rival Chade’s and a range that would rival that of Lady Patience. He can be simultaneously very verbose and extremely private when the mood takes him. The Fool will shed tears without shame if upset or sufficiently moved, and it pulls at my heart every time. He has never lost his playfulness, or his competitive streak that occasionally leads us to indulge in friendly challenges. He enjoys Bingtown coffee, even late in the evening. I have never cared for it, but I enjoy the smell of it while we sit together by the hearth. In sleep, the Fool curls up on his side and looks as young as he ever did in our days at Buckkeep. _

_     I could go on. We know each other with the familiarity built of years and years of companionship and that allows us to converse in half-finished sentences, and communicate whole volumes with only a glance and a smirk. I can read, now, the smallest changes of expression in his face, and he reads me just as well. He will often know before I do whether what I need is solitude or companionship. Both of us have nightmares, and we take turns reminding each other that we’re safe. _

_     I could not stand to lose that familiarity. I long ago learned that we are two parts of a whole. In the past, there have been times when we have retreated into formality to protect ourselves; now I think that it would be more painful than any alternative. _

 

    The Fool had been afraid for days to show himself in front of Fitz, dreading that his friend would finally realize the depth of his betrayal and lash out at him. Once this initial fear passed, it took him weeks to ease into any sort of comfort around the other boy. He was no longer afraid of his wrath, but now worried that if he allowed himself to relax too much, he would throw himself into Fitz's arms and never let go, Prophecies be damned. For obvious reasons, he could not let that happen. He was still polite to the other boy in the hallways, playful even, but he never sought him out as he used to, and the collection of items he normally would have gifted to his friend was accumulating in a basket in his room, left on the table just below the window where he could always see. 

    On this day, however, finding Fitz and truly speaking with him was important. The Dreams he had had before this were hazy and uncertain, but one from years ago, though it made about as much sense as Burrich laughing, needed to be told to Fitz. Soon. The late afternoon found him wandering the gardens. He had not been back outside in a long time, and that had made way for an inordinate amount of rumours, most consisting of the idea that any sunlight at all would burn his pale skin, or else that he was a demon and would be reduced to ash. The people who made these rumours seemed to have forgotten ever seeing him among the flowers before, but they believed what they wanted to.

    Fitz withdrew into himself after the incident on the beach, regretting whole heartedly that he had given voice to his affection for the Fool. He regretted too that he had dared to hope that they might be accepted. It had been foolish, in retrospect. He was an assassin in training, and he had never done anything to be deserving of the Fool's love. The small kindnesses that the Fool had bestowed upon him had been born of friendship at most, and perhaps pity at the least. He should not have imagined that they had meant anything more. And now he had lost even that much. The distance between them seemed greater than ever, and he wished that he could forget, as the Fool had suggested, that they had ever had that terrible conversation. He tried. The first two weeks he spent trudging through his chores half-heartedly, and snapping at Chade until the old man's patience wore thin. When Burrich began giving him looks that suggested another de-worming tonic might be forthcoming, Fitz finally gave up trying to make sense of it all. If that was how things were to be, then he would simply have to carry on. With a mind to putting things behind him, Fitz went to town on errands, and he saw Molly when he could steal an hour or two for himself. And so he was Newboy when he could be, carefully hiding the rest of himself away like a shameful secret. 

    The rest of Fitz’s mind was occupied with his impending trip to Neatbay. Burrich lectured him endlessly on manners and etiquette. Fitz wondered whether it were some scheme of Chade's that sent him on this journey, some kindness of Verity's, or some darker plot at work. The next time Chade summoned him, he was sure that he would be informed. He was preoccupied with his wonderings when he decided to take a detour through the gardens. They were carefully tended, but he thought that he could pick a few flowers and herbs to bring to Molly without being scolded. He had acquired a small handful, and he hoped that she would like them.

    The Fool had been going around to make sure all of the flowers were doing well. Lately, there had been a good many children about and he knew all too well their habits of trampling the plant life. It had not been long ago that he had been that childish himself, though it seemed to him that he had grown up an awful lot lately--too much. He straightened from fixing a boot-shaped gap in the display of flowers and saw Fitz across the path. Suddenly the prospect of speaking with him privately was daunting, but if the Fool ignored his duties as Prophet then there would have been no point to any of it. He strode up to the other boy, not bothering with stealth, and stood a good two feet away from him, looking at him and waiting to be acknowledged.

    Fitz came to a stop when he noticed a flash of colour, blinking out of his thoughts. It was the Fool. In that moment of recognition, a thousand thoughts and emotions passed through his mind. They had not seen one another in quite some time, and the cracks in their friendship seemed to have become a chasm that was impossible to cross. He stood perfectly still for a moment, unsure of how to react. The Fool was looking directly at him, and his chest constricted as he recalled all of the pain that his foolishness had wrought. He took a small breath and he sealed it all away behind iron bars. His posture was defensive, with hunched shoulders and tucked chin, and he forced himself to relax. "Hello, Fool," he greeted, politely.

    "Hello, FitzChivalry," the Fool returned formally. He accorded Fitz the respect of his station--or rather, what his station ought to have been: a prince's son. The Fool would never deny him that, no matter the state of their friendship.

    Fitz blinked several times, trying to place where they stood with one another. The idea that they were now the sort of people who exchanged pleasantries instead of feelings, formalities instead of jests, and brief acknowledgements instead nights together talking was painful. He could not keep that hurt from twisting his expression, and so he nodded his head and turned away, gripping his small bundle of flowers and herbs more tightly than necessary.

    The Fool felt the pain of that expression lance through him, and he closed his eyes against it. He reached out to grab the other boy's upper arm, but pulled back as soon as he got his attention. "Fitz," he said, with some urgency. "I need to tell you something."

  Fitz took a sharp breath and then exhaled it. He turned to face the Fool again and looked at him guardedly. What would the Fool have to say to him? Would he apologize, or should Fitz be the one to apologize? Or would they ignore the matter entirely, and speak of other things? What did they talk about now? Fitz wasn't entirely sure who he was supposed to be with the Fool any longer. Was he Newboy, the bastard, or the assassin? "What is it?" He asked, and the words came out more sharply than he intended.

    The Fool worried at his lip. If Fitz was already hostile, his next words would most certainly not be very well received. "I Dreamed something, and it's important for you to know. If you have a moment, I'd like to tell you." His tone was still polite, and he was praying to any gods listening that Fitz would not decline. If he did, the Fool would have to tell him anyways and that would no doubt upset him.

    Dreams again. Fitz's lips pressed together and he frowned. "I'm not sure that I want to hear it, Fool. It seems to me that no good can come of those Dreams you speak of, if they are real at all."

    "Of course they're real!" the Fool protested. He could not have Fitz losing faith in him; he was the only one who had ever believed in his powers. He took a deep breath and recited the line, although it still made no sense to him. "Fitz fixes feist's fits; fat suffices."

    Fitz 's frown turned to one of confusion laced with irritation. "Excuse me?" 

    The Fool repeated himself, slower this time. "Fitz fixes feist's fits; fat suffices. I don't know what it means," he remarked before the question could be asked.

    Fitz looked at the Fool for a time, studying his face. His shoulders drooped and he sighed. "Alright. You don't know what it means, but you had to tell it to me anyway. Was there anything else that you wanted to say to me? I was going to go to town and bring these to Molly. She doesn't care much whether they're pretty things, just so long as they're useful for her candles." He held up the collection of flowers, and in his eyes there was an unspoken challenge.

    For a moment, an urge rose in the Fool to say something nasty, but it passed. "No, there's nothing else I have to say to you," the Fool answered, although that did not quite address the question of whether there was anything else he  _ wanted _ to say to him.

    The childish impulse was there to snap at the Fool, but Fitz bit down on it before the words could pass his lips. Had he not just been mourning the loss of their friendship? He had l- He had cared deeply about the Fool he had come to know. He was not sure if he felt the same way about the Fool who stood before him now. Nevertheless, he shut his eyes and let his anger pass. It was not the Fool's fault that Fitz had become greedy. 

    "Wait, Fool." Fitz said, before the Fool could decide to go. He took a sunny yellow flower from his collection- it had been picked more for beauty than utility- and then he hesitated. He did not think he could take it if his peace offering were rejected. Things could not possibly be worse than they were at that moment, though, so he held it out and waited. His expression was a mask, and carefully blank.

    Tentatively, the Fool reached forward to take the flower. He tried not to touch the other boy, but the tip of his fingers accidentally brushed Fitz's hand as he closed them around the stem. He offered Fitz a ghost of his old smile and a single tear tracked its way down his cheek. Things were by no means repaired, but it was a start, and for that the Fool was immeasurably grateful.

    Fitz let out a breath he had not been aware he'd been holding, and he withdrew his hand slowly. "I'm going to go now," he said, looking away. "You might not see me for some time. I'm to go to Neatbay with Verity soon."

    "I know," the Fool replied quietly. "I heard King Shrewd mention it. Farewell, FitzChivalry, and good luck." He offered his free hand for a handshake, which he felt was proper.

    Fitz took the Fool's hand tentatively. It was a ghost of the way they'd held hands in the past, and it felt sad somehow. He gave the Fool's hand a shake and then released it. "Good day to you," he said simply. As he turned to go, he felt simultaneously better and worse than when he'd come. Like setting a broken bone, perhaps it was a necessary pain- one of healing that would allow their relationship to settle into a new shape.

    The Fool walked slowly and thoughtfully back to his chambers. When the door was safely closed behind him, he let out a breath--of relief or something else, he could not tell. He swept his pale gaze over his bedchamber and decided it was time for some changes. Setting the yellow flower down on the edge of the washbasin, he proceeded to clear the table under the window of anything that had nothing to do with Fitz. He set the shell from their last jaunt to the beach in the middle of the table and arranged all his ungiven gifts around it, in a sort of shrine-like fashion. Directly behind the shell he placed a pot (which had been hastily emptied of the spearmint it was growing) and he buried the flower within it. When it bloomed again fully, he decided, he would give Fitz all of the things he hadn't been able to before. Until then, the flower would serve as a symbol of their friendship, and with constant nurturing hopefully grow into something strong and beautiful once more.

 

_ “It is for very personal reasons that my favourite colour is yellow.” _

_ \-- Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	13. On Commencement and Companionship - Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another scene that re-imagines one of RH's scenes. We have attempted to avoid doing this since, since it feels like an injustice.

_In my youth, when I said “my king”, I thought of Verity. I wish that I had known him better before the Skill drained his strength, and he was forced to undertake that fateful journey to the mountains for the good of his people. The Chyurda have no word for king or queen other than “sacrifice”. Though he never wore the crown upon his head, Verity was a true king and a man of admirable character. His men sometimes took his disinclination toward smalltalk as a show of disinterest, but I saw it as a show of good faith. He trusted them to come to him if they needed him, and he was always friendly with his men. He did not enforce formality with them or with me._

_That always surprised me. I could not understand why he would take such pains to be kind to his bastard nephew. He was, though. Kind. That kindness engendered a loyalty in me that went deeper than what I had for Shrewd. I thought I understood, at least a little, what Burrich had felt for my father. Verity was a man who preferred blunt honesty, and I repaid his kindness with it. Never once did I regret the truths that I told, and Verity accepted them with an open heart and more understanding than I thought possible._

   

    Fitz kept his packet of poison on his person, and his ears pricked for any bit of gossip on the long and slow journey to Neatbay. Occasionally, his heart would race at the thought of his first mission for the King, but then he would be distracted by some demand from Lady Thyme or another errand to be run. As Chade had suggested, he made himself indispensable to as many people as he could, giving himself an excuse to be seen almost anywhere in almost any company. These tasks distracted him, and even his concerns regarding his darker duty could not stifle the lightness of heart that he felt at finally venturing away from Buckkeep. Not even Lady Thyme's temper or her stench could make him regret the journey. He was still King Shrewd's, but his leash had been lengthened and he enjoyed the illusion of freedom as well as the chance to see new lands beyond the keep and Buckkeep town.

    Verity had never had an easy time taking over another's hospitality, and Neatbay was no exception. He was a man of habit, and losing the sound of crashing waves or the smell of the sea was not habitual. It appeared to be affecting Leon, too; the poor old boy seemed to droop wherever he went. Verity recalled that Fitz was fond of dogs, and thought perhaps he could use his aid. Besides, the boy was to be part of his entourage. He sent someone to fetch him, only belatedly realizing that he had ordered one of Kelvar's men about as if he was a servant of Buckkeep.

    The caravan had finally arrived after days of riding, and Fitz fought the urge to bite his lip when he heard his name called by Sig. His mind had already raced ahead to thoughts of food and comfort, and his belly rumbled as though to protest the summons. He forced a cheerful smile to his face for Kelvar's man, though, and he trotted after him. The dour seeming man made no effort to return the pleasantry, or to make an effort at conversation. Fitz preferred it to the false pleasantness that would have resulted if the man had known of his blood, though, and he felt glad that he had no crest upon his riding clothes. He tapped at Verity's door and hastened inside when Charim admitted him. He looked around the room, curious as to the reason behind his being summoned.

    Charim's hurried explanation was cut off by Verity's call from the adjoining chamber. "Fitz, my boy! Is that you? Take a look at Leon for me, would you?" Now that he had a guest, he made an effort to finish his bath faster.

    "Yes, Prince Verity!" Fitz called. He could not help but use his uncle's title surrounded by the obvious reminders of his rank.

    "Verity!" the addressed corrected. Not even Charim called him Prince.

    Fitz's gaze and his Wit found Leon by the hearth, resting on Verity's shirt, and he quested out toward him. With a glance at Charim, he made a show of examining Leon for signs of sickness or injury that might explain his lethargy. In truth, though, he could feel only the hound's boredom and discomfort from the heat. He could sympathize. It was interesting to be in a new place, but for a hound who enjoyed the hunt, there certainly wasn't much to do. "There's nothing wrong with him," Fitz reported to Charim once his charade was done. He explained that Leon was simply not hungry, and that some cold water might make him more comfortable. Fitz eyed the plate of scraps and pastries with envy, even as he instructed the man that it should be taken away lest Leon try to eat it later once it had gone bad from the heat.

     "And Charim, make sure there is enough left on that tray for the boy to eat," Verity added. Having finished his bath, he stood up and let himself drip dry before wrapping himself in a dressing gown and emerging into the other room, running his fingers through his curly hair. "What's ailing him?" he asked Fitz without preamble.

    Fitz looked up at Verity and rose so that he could sketch a hasty bow. "Not much is wrong with him, sir--I mean, Verity. He's only a bit out of sorts from the heat and from travelling. I've asked for some cool water to be brought for him, and he should be back to his old self after a night's rest. I expect that he's rather bored with no hunting to do, too," Fitz added.

    "I sympathise completely," Verity said with dry amusement. "This was never my domain, always Chivalry's. Even Regal, I believe, would be better suited to this than I," he sighed. "Well, there's no avoiding it now. I suggest you make yourself comfortable in the brief time we have before dinner. At least to rid yourself of the dust of the road."

    Fitz gave his uncle a small smile. Verity would sympathize with Leon. He had always been a soldier more than a politician, and he was the sort to prefer the outdoors to the noisy and pompous affairs that were royal gatherings. That did not mean that he was not suited for the task at hand, though, and Fitz could not help but say as much: "Sir, I think that you're just the person for this task. Far better suited for it than Prince Regal. He would be so taken with the entertainment and the gossip, that he might not do more than make a cursory mention of the watch tower and be on his way. You're a soldier first, and understand military matters far better than he. You'll be sure to put the welfare of the people first, and find a practical solution--" Fitz cut himself off before his tongue could run away with him again, and he opened and closed his mouth silently before shutting it. A blush rose to his cheeks. "Apologies, sir. I meant no slight to your royal brother. I...perhaps I should go back to the stables to see to the horses?"

    Verity, however, had laughed at Fitz's comment about Regal. "Ah, you're no doubt right. You've reminded me of my duty." At the boy's later suggestion, he frowned. "I don't see the point. The stableboys will take care of your horse, and we don't have much time before the meal starts. While I have your attention, however..." He wondered how to approach this delicately. "I understand you were sent with me for a certain purpose..."

    Fitz ducked his head for a moment, embarrassed, but then quenched the feeling and stood up straight before his prince. He reminded himself of Chade's words that King Shrewd would tell Verity that he was a spy and nothing else. "Yes, Verity," Fitz said, with a discreet glance toward Charim, "I hope that I will be able to serve you well."

    "Don't worry about him," Verity assured his nephew, motioning towards Charim. "I surround myself only with people I trust." That was why he was not often in his brother's company. "And I do believe you will do quite well. I expect you to watch our people as well as theirs; I've no idea if there have been other orders given. It would do us no good for anyone to fall under harm." Regal was impulsive, and he enjoyed making everything his business, even when he was not present. Verity had no idea if he had sent people to 'ease the negotiation.' "If anyone should fall under danger or suspicion, report to me immediately. Although--" He realized he had probably insulted the boy's intelligence. "You know all this, having been trained. I apologize."

    Offering Verity a smile, Fitz said, "You need not fear, Verity. I'll report to you all that I learn at the meal and afterwards. Until then..." He trailed off, realizing that he had no idea what he was meant to do if he were not to see to the horses.

    "Thank you, Fitz. I--" Verity was cut off by an irritated bark from Charim, stating that the newly arrived water was going to go cold if the boy did not make use of it soon. Verity chuckled. "You had best get in that tub, boy. Else Charim is like to tighten your laces a little too much." The old servant really was harmless, and Verity enjoyed the dynamic they had.

    "A bath? Me?" Fitz looked in the direction Charim's voice had come from dubiously, but did not dare disobey a direct order, no matter how gently it was phrased. "Yes, sir," he said, and gave Verity another hasty bow before finding Charim in the adjoining chamber. He undressed and hoped that none would discover the small hidden tools he kept tucked away.

    "A bath. Yes, you." Verity gave a good natured shake of his head and set to getting dressed himself. Of course, Charim was on him in less than a minute, the old servant bouncing back and forth between the two rooms. He was grumbling under his breath the whole time, and Verity told him he could manage. Charim did not leave off him until he was completely ready, however, and so Verity was left sitting in his chair in his full finery while the servant prepared his nephew. It was quite uncomfortable, but a necessary evil, he supposed.

    Over the course of the next half hour, Fitz was scrubbed clean of more dirt than he'd thought possible, and then laced and buttoned into better clothes than he'd ever worn. They were done in the current style, with wide flapping sleeves and lace, which Fitz thought to be a waste of good fabric. They were also horrifically impractical for such things as riding, running, or even walking comfortably. Charim fussed greatly until Fitz was made presentable, and even went so far as to brush his tangled hair into submission. Once Fitz's seams were straight, and his sleeves puffed to irritating fullness, he was finally given a nod of approval and sent back out to his uncle once more. Fitz's expression was one of profound embarrassment.

    Verity sat forward in his chair upon seeing his nephew. "Blood will tell," he breathed in amazement. He gave Charim a brief glance of approval on a job well done, but he was a bit worried. It was not as if the boy needed a bigger target on his back. "No one would doubt who fathered you. I have to wonder at my father's wisdom in this, but Shrewd he is called and shrewd he is. I cannot question his reason when he applies it with far more skill than I do." He sighed and looked towards the door, already anticipating the end of dinner so that he could get out of those clothes. He gestured to a spare chair. "It appears they aren't ready for us yet. You might as well sit down; your discomfort will only grow if you remain on your feet."

    Fitz sat awkwardly, and blushed under his uncle's scrutiny. "I am sure he meant no harm by it, Verity. A bastard is a useful thing, in some circumstances. Those we dine with today will afford me enough respect to speak with me, but not so much that they might guard their tongues too closely. I'll also be able to approach those of high enough rank that an ordinary servant might not, which affords me other opportunities..." Fitz swallowed and averted his gaze momentarily. Verity was an honest man above all else. He would not be able to share a table with a man he knew might be marked for death without betraying it in some way. Still, Fitz felt that he ought to repay that honesty with his own. A prince ought to know what tools were at his disposal, and what schemes went on that might affect him. If he had been Verity, he would have wanted to know. "Sir, King Shrewd has given me one other task that I think you would prefer to know."

    Verity marked Fitz's use of the honourific where he had been remembering not use it. From this, he inferred the importance of the topic at hand. "If King Shrewd did not tell me, perhaps it was for a reason," he suggested to his nephew gently, "but if you would feel more comfortable speaking to me of it, I will listen." He could not think of what would give the boy such pause, unless he had been tasked to begin a courtship or some other delicate political maneuver.

    Fitz took a breath and paused to gather his thoughts. He knew his decision to be the right one by his own morals, but was it the correct one? He looked at Verity and quested out toward him cautiously. He could feel nothing but a benign curiosity. He truly did not know what King Shrewd had made of his bastard nephew. Fitz felt a tightness in his chest and he felt oddly nervous. Would Verity still treat him kindly if he knew? But Verity did deserve to know, and Fitz's loyalty won out. One day Verity would be king, and Fitz would serve him as he served King Shrewd. If they both still lived. "My prince, I--" Fitz started, and then faltered. He knew that Verity would only be irritated by circumspect, polite language. "Verity, I am an assassin." His face burned as he made the admission, but he met Verity's gaze to try to convey his honesty.

    Verity tried hard to not let his jaw drop. His shoulders dropped instead, and a momentary sadness crossed his face. "Oh." He suddenly felt very sorry for his nephew, but he knew the boy would not appreciate that. Besides, he could have done nothing about his father's decision, even if he _had_ known in time. "How long?" he asked sympathetically. He hoped Fitz had at least been old enough to know what he was getting into when he had made his decision.

    "Four years, by my count," Fitz answered. He could feel Verity's sympathy, and it did not anger him as it might have from anyone else. Verity had had no hand in making him what he was. "You were not told, but I tell you now because I thought that you would prefer to know and because..." How could he phrase it? How could he tell Verity that with his kindness alone, he had won more loyalty than ever Shrewd could buy? "Because it did not seem right to me, that you should not know. I have not been ordered to kill anyone, not unless I find absolute proof of treason. I just thought that you should know..."

    "Thank you for trusting me," Verity answered, hearing Fitz’s unspoken admission of loyalty. _Where my father did not_. "The Duke himself, then? I hope it does not come to that. Truly." He shook his head sadly. He did not think he could bear it if the man whose hospitality he was accepting died at the hand of one of his father's men. "If you can, keep it from reaching that point." He was quiet, pleading with his eyes if not his voice. "I trust you will try, just as you trusted me to know." He wondered what Chiv would say. He wondered also if he would have allowed his son to become this. He would like to think not, but as things sat he would never know.

    Fitz felt a weight lifted off of his shoulders when he realized that Verity was not disgusted. Fitz found himself more grateful than ever for the kindness that Verity showed him. "I should not say who..." Fitz said, reluctantly. Verity's feelings were always plain on his face, and he could not have him looking at Lord Kelvar with pity. “Verity, I promise I will do my best to do as you ask. I'll report to you anything that I learn."

    Verity nodded gravely and leaned forward to warmly clasp Fitz's shoulder. "Thank you. Your father would be proud of the sort of man you're turning out to be." Recalling Fitz's sensitivity regarding his father, Verity withdrew and added: "I too, am proud of you." Giving his nephew an encouraging smile, he stood at a signal from Charim and tugged his jerkin a little straighter as he headed for the door. "Three paces back and to the right, remember."

    Fitz did not know what to do with Verity's sudden expression of pride. It floated around his mind and he found that he could make neither heads nor tails of it. Verity was proud of him? Fitz had told him that he was an assassin, and Verity had thanked him and told him that he was proud. Proud that he had told him? He could still feel the lingering ghost of a touch where Verity's large hand had clasped his shoulder. The warmth of it and of his uncle's words sank into him, and he felt tears prickling at his eyes. Surreptitiously, he wiped them away and rose to follow after Verity. Three paces back, and to his right.

    That dinner was one of the hardest Verity had ever had to attend. His nephew never left his thoughts through the whole meal, and he had to force himself not to look towards the boy too much. It was equally as difficult to speak normally with Kelvar and respond enthusiastically to his proposed plans for the future. He could not give up the secrecy that Fitz had trusted him with, however, so he performed his best. If he felt more than a little dishonest at the end of his meal, he reminded himself that everyone else in his family was forced to speak stronger lies every day. Such were the politics of the court. He heard nothing that might betray treachery during dinner, but then he was not a trained spy. He retired to his chambers after dessert had passed and conversation had started to dwindle. He felt he had gotten the point across about the watch tower, but what if he had not? He found himself wondering idly how Fitz would do it. He then decided he would rather not know, and he certainly would not speak to the boy about it when he returned to the chambers

    After the meal was done, Fitz felt relieved to return to Verity's ante-chamber. It had been a long, drawn-out affair with food that did little to satisfy his hunger, and idle chatter that was not much useful. He felt that he had learned enough simply from observing Lady Grace and Lord Kelvar, though. He had not completely eliminated the possibility of treachery, but he felt certain that he'd found the problem in the jewels that Lady Grace wore, and the look in Kelvar's eyes as he looked on her. His little sachet of poison would go unused. Fitz longed for sleep after a long day, but he followed Charim willingly to Verity's bedchamber to report.

    Verity had stripped himself of the uncomfortable clothing as soon as he had been able. He was now wearing a nightshirt and was hastily folding the garments he had rumpled when he discarded them. It was not fair for Charim to have to do something that Verity himself was both capable of doing and had the spare time to do. He left them neatly stacked on a chair and had just sat back down when Fitz and Charim came back in. The servant immediately busied himself, and Verity beckoned Fitz over. "We both long for sleep," he observed, "so make your report concise." His tone was that of a wearied soldier to a comrade.

    Fitz bobbed his head in a bow and did his duty, reporting as Chade would have wanted him to do. He was practiced in organizing his thoughts in such a way, and so the words came easily. Verity would not have the patience for such details as Chade would require, though, and so Fitz summarized to the best of his ability. "I have found no evidence of treason, my Prince. Lord Kelvar is an old man, and he has taken a young wife. The Lady Grace is clearly unused to her finery, and I suspect that she was born of common parentage. She seems ignorant of her own duties, never mind those of her lord husband. She accepts the gifts that he gives to her and flaunts them in her attempt to appear more refined. Kelvar is most likely spending the money that he saves on repairs and watchmen to spoil his young bride and ensure her continued affection for him. He won her with his title, and now hopes to keep her with his wealth. If it were not impolite to say so, I might suppose that his manhood fails him and he seeks to please her with riches as a substitute. I believe that if this problem is addressed, you will have solved the problems with the infrastructure and defences."

    Verity let out an incredulous chuckle. "So simple a solution for such a problem," he marvelled. "I can't imagine it would be entirely proper for me to assume to Kelvar that he is wasting riches on his young wife, though I suppose that is the reason I came..." He grimaced. His position as the King's son would protect him from most of the scandal such a rebuke would bring, even if he spoke with the Duke in private. "That is preferable to any alternative, however." He certainly did not want Lady Grace dropping dead. "Thank you, my boy. I will move on this tomorrow. Rest now, you've earned it."

    Though he knew that he was dismissed, Fitz could not help but linger. He shifted on his feet awkwardly. True, he had stated the problem plainly enough, but simply accusing the duke of squandering his riches on a woman would not solve their problem. Lord Kelvar was a duke, not a common soldier. Even a soldier, Fitz suspected, would take such an accusation badly, even if it came from the crown prince. Kelvar would not be pleased to have been so embarrassed, and he would feel like less of a man before his lady if he were unable to provide her with what he thought was necessary. Lady Grace would not understand why her husband was withdrawing his affections, and she would react badly to losing what she viewed as the only evidence of her new status as nobility. Did Verity believe that the only options were a direct confrontation or death? Fitz supposed that he might. Verity was a blunt man, who had no patience for the dancing and maneuvering that politics required. Those were the most direct solutions. "My prince," Fitz ventured. "If Lord Kelvar feels he is being reprimanded, he may resent your interference. He can be commanded to man the towers, but he cannot be forced to do it well or to take pride in it..." Perhaps he overstepped his place, but Fitz found himself worrying that his report would cause a political disturbance.

    Verity had passed a hand over his face in exhaustion, stifling a yawn, and the words barely penetrated his foggy mind. "What would you suggest then, Chiv?" His eyes flew open. "Fitz," he corrected, wide awake now. "Fitz. I'm sorry. Please, enlighten me. I've no idea how to dance around formalities. If I cannot speak with Duke Kelvar about this, do you suppose that speaking with Lady Grace would fare me any better? From what you have seen, is she discreet enough to suggest to her lord husband a wiser course of action, or will she run to him as a child might?" It really was too late to be thinking about this, but they were supposed to leave late the next morning.

    Fitz was wide-eyed after Verity's slip, and he found that he did not know what to think or feel about it. He pushed it out of mind in favour of considering Verity's questions. More relaxed now that he did not fear being scolded, he let his thoughts follow the path that Chade might have led him down if he were there. "Kelvar's mind is not on the governing of his duchy. Changing a man's thoughts is a difficult thing. Lady Grace may indeed be the answer as you suggest, but she has had no education in what is required of her in her new role, and is not confident in herself..." Fitz paused to yawn and blink his burning eyes. He recalled Verity's earlier concern and the words that Chade had used to soothe his own. "My prince, we do not deal only in death. Not always. Not when it isn't necessary. Sometimes information is all that is needed. Sometimes we can use our tools to save lives or heal babes..." He yawned again. What was it that Chade had said exactly? He wasn't even precisely sure what his own words had been.

    "Fitz," Verity said kindly, implanting the name into his mind. He put both hands on his nephew's shoulders. "We can speak of this tomorrow. You can barely keep your eyes open, and I do not have the mindset to deal with this manner of issue on the best of days. If it takes us longer than necessary, I am certain Duke Kelvar will make the proper accommodations. We are, after all, a royal emissary." It felt like cheating to use his privilege so, but it was to keep his people safe.

    Fitz nodded blearily and rubbed his eyes. Verity's hands were a warm weight on his shoulders, and their strength was comforting. He wondered if that was what his father's hands would have felt like. Verity smelled like the herbs that had scented his bath water, leather, parchment, and ink. All of his gratitude to his uncle came back in force and he felt the sudden urge to embrace him. As quickly as it came, his wariness made him battle the impulse. The result was an aborted motion that made him duck his head in shame. His cheeks burned. "Good night, Verity," he mumbled, hoping that the prince had not noticed his lapse.

    Fitz had barely moved, but since Verity's hands were on his shoulders he felt the twitch. If he had been more certain of the boy's boundaries, he might have reassured him with a firm hug. He did not want to overstep, however, and so settled for a firm squeeze of his hands instead. "Goodnight, FitzChivalry," he replied, terminating their contact and turning to tuck himself under the covers. He noted that he would have to make an opportunity to personally talk to Fitz again, when circumstances were not so dire.

    Fitz bowed, glad for the darkness that hid the redness in his cheeks. He then shuffled off to his pallet, too tired for much thought. Lord Kelvar's problem was surely in his new wife, but he could not think of how to resolve that. They needed not only to man the watch tower, but also to ensure that the lord was properly motivated to care for all of the other issues he'd heard gossiped about such as highwaymen and road repairs. All while keeping his pride intact. It was a complicated matter, but those thoughts fled him as his head met his pillow and he drifted off to sleep.

 

_“As close as I was with King Shrewd, this was a matter of confidence on his part and love on mine. I do not doubt that he held some bit of affection for me, but it did not hold a candle to the mutual love that eventually grew between Fitz and Verity. I was forever grateful that Fitz had someone to guide him along the everyday walks of life, and I know his admiration for the sort of man Verity was has greatly shaped his own character._

_“Prince Verity was greatly unappreciated in his own time, by everyone except for Fitz and Kettricken. I have realized many times that I am guilty of this, and I wish I could express to him how much good he was instrumental in creating.”_

_\-- Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet_


	14. On Commencement and Companionship - Speculation

_     Words have a surprising amount of power. (“You don’t say. Thank you, FitzChivalry,” the Fool says sarcastically as he looks over my shoulder. I huff and give him a look, but he lessens the sting of his words with a kiss to my cheek.) _

_     What the Fool seems to have known instinctively, I learned gradually over the years. My first experience of being consciously aware of the power my words carried was when I told Lady Grace a wild tale about how I’d had a dream of a brave woman giving up her jewels for the good of her people. That conversation altered the course of history, I believe, though I was still reluctant at the time to think that any action of mine could hold so much significance. It is not only those pivotal conversations that carry weight, however. Like the way a staircase is gradually worn down by the tread of many feet, or the way an artist creates a picture from many tiny strokes of the brush, the little words we exchange can steer the course of history as surely as any royal edict. _

_     I have had many experiences of having said words that I regret, and I have given many apologies. Chade told me this once: _

_     “Someday, FitzChivalry, those words will not be enough. Sometimes it is easier to pull a knife out of a man than to ask him to forget words you have uttered. Even words uttered in anger.” _

_     I wish that I had taken those words to heart then. Much as people have told me that I inherited my father’s knack for diplomacy, I think that I would have failed in his position. My temper has always taken the reins of my tongue faster than my reason can hold it back. I am grateful that the Fool has always forgiven me for that. _

_     (“I have always paid you back in kind with words of my own,” the Fool says mildly, resting his hand on my shoulder for a moment before quietly departing. I watch him go. It is rare that he watches me at my writing, respectful as he is of my privacy. I am grateful for that, even though I miss his company.) _

_      Happily, we have exchanged many more pleasant words in our time together. _

 

Come morning, Verity joined the other nobles for breakfast and was surprised to see Lady Grace without her accoutrements. When everyone had finished eating, she had stood up and given a grand speech, denouncing all riches until her lord husband's duchy was safe from the coastal raiders. She did not appear to be afraid, but proud, and so Verity concluded that Fitz had simply spoken to her, and had not had to resort to intimidation. It made him even prouder of the boy, and he had a hard time containing his smile through her speech. He spoke to Charim much of the occurrence, who agreed that Fitz seemed to have the diplomatic prowess his father had possessed. Verity wanted to see Fitz right away, but he was told that he was engaged with Lady Thyme at the moment. In fact, he did not get a chance to speak with Fitz until a few days later, when everyone had returned to Buckkeep. As soon as he had word that Fitz was back, he sent a page to fetch him.

    Fitz had been hoping for a summons from Verity, so he responded with alacrity and spared only the minimum amount of time on making himself presentable. As long as he did not smell overmuch of the stables and both his hands and face were clean, he thought that would be enough. Verity would probably have been annoyed if he'd taken the time to primp and preen as Regal did, and Fitz did not see the worth in such efforts, so it was not long before he was rapping on the door of Verity's tower room. He had so much to tell the prince regarding the occurrences at Forge. He wondered how the man would react to the wild tale.

    "Come in," called Verity, who could sense Fitz's burning excitement through the door. Once the boy came in, he said: "Sit. Clearly we both have much we would like to say, but speak first, my boy." He set aside the map he was working on and leaned forward, his hands on his knees.

    Fitz stole a glance at the work that his prince set aside, taking in the fine quality of both parchment and ink. By the smudges on Verity's fingers, he surmised that it must have been his own work. Fitz was impressed. He sat, and then hesitated. It seemed odd to him that Verity should give him precedence, but he rationalized it by comparison to Chade demanding a report. Of course Verity would want to have all of the information he could. Fitz took a breath and then began. His voice fell easily into the cadence he used while delivering a report to Chade or to Burrich when he’d been long away from the stables. He mentioned nothing of Lady Grace, for he had heard that things had gone well and was satisfied with that. He spoke instead about Forge, doing his best to convey all that he needed to without mention of Chade or directly discussing his Wit. 

    "... It was as though all trace of humanity had left them, sir. Whoever they were before they'd been taken was gone and they were left as simply shells. Worse than that, for they seemed to have no empathy left at all. I saw a man who shoved aside a little girl to steal from her a broken pot of jam. Two women seemed prepared to fight to the death over a kettle. They spared no glances for another soul save when they thought to take something for themselves, but it wasn't only that. They did not seem concerned or grieved by what had befallen them. It was as though they'd been stripped of that which makes us human, no, that which makes us alive, for even animals have more than they did."

    Verity frowned, and a deep sigh left him. "This is grave news," he intoned, standing to look out the window. His eyes roved over the water he could see from his height and beyond to where he knew the OutIslands were. He sighed again. "It overshadows my own news for you, somewhat." He stared over the water for a little longer before returning to his seat. "As you were not present, I imagine you would like to know what happened with Lady Grace. She made a grand speech, FitzChivalry, and even the stoniest lords were moved by it. Duke Kelvar seemed twenty years younger when she had finished, and he was so overtaken that he went down on one knee and kissed her fingertips. Some of the ladies in attendance offered up their jewels on the spot, to help pay for manning the tower. I can only hope that this will be enough to deter the OutIslanders for a time, especially in light of the news you have just shared with me." He looked upon a finished map hung on the wall, his eyes tracing an invisible line from Forge to Buckkeep. "I imagine my father has already heard this news, and I can only hope we may work together to end this threat. All of us."

    Though he had already heard the tale of Lady Grace's sacrifice many times by the time he'd made his way back to Buckkeep, Fitz nodded nevertheless. It had been kind of Verity to take the time to inform him. Fitz's eyes followed Verity as he crossed the room, and he fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, nervously. "Sir, have there ever been hostage threats of this kind before that you recall?"

    "Never," Verity replied gravely. When he frowned, he looked for a moment like King Shrewd. He seemed to be strategizing on the spot: which towns were most in need of protecting; how many soldiers the Keep could spare; how many more they could afford to hire; which villages were too small for the OutIslanders to bother; how long they would take to get from their home to the Duchies...the list was endless. He forgot Fitz was in the room for a time, and spoke to himself aloud: "And we have no warships..."

    Accustomed to Chade’s long silences, Fitz was patient while Verity thought. He nodded his agreement when Verity spoke. "No, and it would be easier to fight them off at sea before they reach us, rather than attempt to thwart the raiders on land. If they are capable of turning Six Duchies people into whatever those things were, then it would be better to stop them before they can take anyone... But, Prince Verity? I saw someone who was like that once before. A man, or so he seemed. He could have been a carpenter, or I know not what... He came upon the Fool and me while we were exploring in the woods and it felt the same. Could it be the influence of some drug?" He did not know what drug could make a man lose that much of himself.

    Verity started when Fitz spoke again, remembering his presence. "Just Verity," he corrected absently before returning to the matter at hand. "How long ago was this encounter? And did you tell anyone of it? Even if you did, it would have been dismissed as an isolated incident, though perhaps we would have more knowledge on the condition now. Perhaps we can ask the Queen if she knows of any such drugs..." He did not mean it as a slight, and indeed the statement was quite practical; Desire's habits were common knowledge. "In any case, what happened to the man?"

    "Verity," Fitz corrected himself. He ordered Verity's questions in his mind and did his best to keep track of them. "It was several years ago, and not much use now. I only thought to mention it because the... symptoms were so similar. I told only one person, but he could make nothing of it." That had been Chade, who had regarded him much in the way one might look at the runt of the litter who suddenly began to show some spirit. "The man... was killed, and I know not what became of his body. It wouldn't be of much use after all this time either."

    Verity turned his head to finally look Fitz in the eye. "Did you kill him?" he asked in his blunt manner.

    Unable to lie in the face of such a direct question, Fitz blushed. "Yes, Verity." 

    Verity nodded. "And did his death feel strange to you? As strange or out of place as his life felt?"

    Fitz blinked at the oddness of the question. "It was as though he had no life at all to start with. Like a rock, or a fallen log."

    "So his death was no different than what remained of his life?" Verity insisted. Realizing he must have sounded half-mad, he explained: "I know that several of our folk from Forge were killed, and by our own highway guards. If they were truly as empty as you say, then the spilling of our own people's blood can be forgiven. It would be different if they seemed to come back to themselves upon death."

    Comprehension relaxed the furrows in Fitz's brow. "No, I sensed nothing from him... It's as though the Raiders have already killed them. Killed the parts that made them who they were, and now they're only bodies."

    "I should read up on OutIslander magic," Verity grumbled. "Perhaps they have the capacity to...I don't know, steal souls?" As a pragmatic man, Verity had a difficult time according this due consideration. The only magics he knew of were the Skill and the Wit, and even the latter was nearly gone, its bloodlines ended after the Piebald Prince.

    "It couldn't hurt," Fitz said, wondering if Chade had any scrolls on the subject. "Do you believe that the affected towns should pay the ransom, then?"

    Verity sighed. "I...don't know, Fitz. I am loath to leave any of my people in enemy clutches, but until we can find a cure, perhaps they are better captive and untransformed." Clearly, he believed the OutIslanders to have the same honour the Duchies did with prisoners of war.

    Fitz frowned. "It is a difficult decision," he said diplomatically. "Paying once would encourage the Outlanders to repeat the practice, but would spare the townsfolk the horror of seeing their loved ones in such a state. Refusing to pay means that they are returned to us as shells. Short of stopping the Raiders from succeeding at taking anyone, I cannot see a way to save them."

    "And it all comes back to that, doesn't it? Preventative measures." His posture straightened. "We need a navy, Fitz. And I must convince my father of this. He does not believe we should spread ourselves so thin on the waters that are the Raiders' home. But it is exactly that element of surprise that will give us an edge. And our trade with the Mountain Folk perhaps could yield us some strong timber..." He grimaced. "I should not be laying all this at your feet. I apologize. You are under quite enough responsibility."

    Fitz shook his head. He was feeling rather proud of himself, really, for he was in some small way, serving Verity as Chade served Shrewd. He was not so arrogant as to believe that he did it well, or that the words of a mere boy were enough to change the kingdom, but he had been listened to and he felt at least a little bit important. Seeing Verity's posture shift from troubled to determined had been satisfying. "I'm pleased to be of service to you, Verity," he said, and he found that he meant every word from the bottom of his heart.

    "And I am pleased to have you in my confidence," Verity replied warmly. He gave Fitz a kind smile that did not quite hide the weariness in his eyes as he dismissed him. "No doubt you have other duties, my boy. I hope I have not caused you too much delay."

Fitz rose to go. "Not at all. Good day, Verity." He bowed.

    "Good day, FitzChivalry." Even before the door had closed behind his nephew, Verity had strode back to the window to watch the watery horizon and dread the red hulls that might crest it.

    Fitz left Verity's chambers feeling pleased, but also a small bit worried. He would have to speak with Chade regarding his new relationship with Verity. Doubtless Chade would see some usefulness in it, and Fitz hated to taint it with plotting and intrigue, but he would feel safer knowing that he had Chade's wisdom behind him. With some time left before midday, Fitz decided to steal a few moments for himself. There were many possibilities, including a nap. Chade would have laughed at him, but Fitz thought that he could be allowed that small bit of relaxation after days of travel. He knew he would have little sleep that night if Chade chose to summon him. He turned toward the staircase, looking forward to finding his bed.

 

    The Fool had heard that Fitz was back, and he had also been in the room when King Shrewd had heard about the attack on Forge. In recent years, and especially since he had learned the shadow man's name, King Shrewd no longer had an aversion to summoning Chade while the Fool was still there. Perhaps he hoped that the old assassin would play a role in the Prophecies, or perhaps the Fool had simply been loyal enough to warrant the trust. In studying their many conversations silently, the Fool had also marked some semblance between them; he had no doubt that they were related. Obviously his Catalyst had survived the Forge attack, but the Fool automatically likened Chade's recounting of Fitz's description to the one his friend had given him on that fateful day of their ride. 

    Once the King seemed occupied in his own tasks, the Fool slipped from his chambers, no longer having to ask for dismissal. He could have found the way to Fitz's chambers blindfolded, and the steps there were as familiar as the beating of his own heart. While the boy had been away, the Fool had gone into his room on two separate occasions: once to add a palm-sized painting of a dog to Fitz's collection of items; and once to sit in the centre of his bed, soaking himself in the warm feeling that came from being anywhere near associated with his Catalyst. He slipped in just as quietly now, after peering through the crack between the door and the frame to ensure Fitz was asleep. He only meant to check that he was well, but he ended up staring at the other boy--his even breathing, the flutter of his lashes, the curl of the dark hair against his cheek--and mourned all he had lost those several weeks prior. A gentle sigh left him: barely enough to stir fallen leaves on an autumn day, but enough that he came back to himself to realize silent tears had been flowing down his cheeks. He raised an arm to wipe them away.

    Fitz had not been long abed before he felt a change in the air, and heard the slight creaking of his door. He had been nearly asleep, but he had long been accustomed to waking upon the opening of the secret passageway that led to Chade's quarters. At first he'd assumed it was that, despite the early hour, but the draught was different and the passageway always opened soundlessly. The door, then, Fitz realized. Who would be entering his chambers at this time? He had neglected to latch the door. A serving person? But he'd not heard anyone exit, and they had the habit of rapping on the door before entering. Whoever had opened his door had not shut it, and Fitz heard no footsteps. There was nothing from his witsense. Feeling a shiver up his neck, Fitz opened his eyes just a fraction - a mere fluttering of the lashes. Colour. Lots of it. Fitz opened his eyes the rest of the way, and sat up. "Fool," he observed, confused. "What are you doing here?"

    "You aren't supposed to be awake." The words left the Fool in his surprise, before he could think about them. "I wanted to make sure you were alright," he corrected himself. "But seeing you unchanged, my duty here is quite done." He had adjusted his tone to that of the court performer, and he even did a half-pirouette as he turned to go.

    Fitz swung his legs over the side of the bed so that he could sit up properly, and rubbed his eyes. "Wait, Fool?" He called, remembering a question that he had to ask the other boy.

    The Fool stopped mid-step, his left foot hovering a few inches above the floor. "Yes, Fitz?" he asked, turning his head.

    "What was it that you said to me that day in the gardens?"

    "Fitz fixes feist's fits. Fat suffices," the Fool recited again, bringing his foot down. "Did it come right away, or did you have to wait?"

    "Fitz fixes... I thought you were only saying my name. I understand it now, I think. Fitz fixes a feist's fits. Feisty. Lady Grace's fat little dog." Fitz blinked as he drew the connection in his mind. Could it have been that, or was he only imagining and making connections in hindsight that had never truly existed - interpreting the events to fit the, what, prophecy?

    The Fool’s curiosity outweighed any trepidation he felt between them. "Then it did come true?" he asked, his eyes bright as he returned to Fitz's bedside. It was the first time one of his Prophecies had been fulfilled. "Tell me of this. Please."

    Fitz shifted over so that the Fool could sit. "I'm not sure. I could just be imagining things. There was a dog. I got hungry in the night because they'd served us some awful formal dinner, and I went down to the kitchens. A serving girl came down, or I thought that she was a serving girl at the time, carrying her dog. It was choking on a small bone from a pheasant, and I used a bit of butter and a hook to pull it loose. Afterward, I realized it had been Lady Grace. I'd made the poor beast piss all over her nightdress, too."

    Usually, the Fool would have giggled at such an undignified fate for a noble, but he was too focused on the Prophecy. "Fat suffices," he whispered. "Of course!" He was practically giddy with excitement. "No one can doubt it now!" Not only did the Fool truly possess Prophetic abilities, but the only person able to fulfill that fate was the Catalyst. And there Fitz had done it. The Fool clenched his fists tight in order to still the excitement he felt so keenly. He wanted to spring around the room, to dance, to sing, to proclaim Fitz as a hero to anyone who would listen.

    Fitz did rather believe that he could doubt it, and he did silently while the Fool rejoiced. It could have been a mistake to tell him if it only affirmed his strange beliefs, but seeing the Fool so happy made it hard for Fitz to regret it. "Well," Fitz said, choosing not to comment on the matter of prophecy. "I managed to convince her to give up her jewels to pay for the watchmen. Actually..." Fitz hesitated. Did he want to divulge this bit of information?

    "Of course you did," the Fool picked up Fitz's abandoned stream of words. "You are the only one she would listen to. Not Verity, nor Shrewd, nor even El himself could have convinced her. Just you." The look he gave Fitz was burning so brightly with pride that he felt the sensation in the pit of his stomach too.

    Looking at the Fool's smile, Fitz wished that he could feel remotely as triumphant as that. The Fool was practically glowing with his enthusiasm. Fitz thought that if he gave in, and if he joined the Fool to share that pleasure, perhaps something might be mended in their tattered friendship. After the Fool's rejection, though, Fitz was not sure that he wanted to be the one to take that step. He looked at the Fool and wondered, and he thought of the small painting he'd found in his rooms and of the closeness they had once shared. A closeness he'd foolishly over embellished and misinterpreted as love. It was not that, but perhaps they could have something.

    "I told her that I'd dreamed it," Fitz said, giving the Fool a wry smile. "I told her I'd dreamed of a woman who turned three strong men into a united wall that the Red-ship Raiders could not breach. A wild tale. It was nonsense, but she believed me."

    At Fitz's initial declaration of claiming a dream, the Fool's smile widened and he let out an excited gasp. That soon faded, though, and his hands relaxed as the joy went out of him. A dream of the future was wild nonsense, then. Of course, Fitz could have meant that it was only nonsense that  _ he _ might have dreamed it, but the Fool doubted it. He knew a slight when he heard one. "I see."

    Fitz looked aside from the Fool. He hated to see the way the joy went out of him. It had been his fault, too. He was reminded of the time he'd accidentally crushed a butterfly. "I did not mean..." He started, but he knew that he had, at least a bit. "I apologize, Fool. That was unkind of me."

    "So it was," the Fool agreed. He stood. "Well, I am glad to hear of your success, both on behalf of the kingdom and of myself. If I experience any more wild nonsense, I shall be sure to let you know. Not that it helped you any last time." He was not really upset with the other boy, but he wanted to let him know that mockery of the Dreams was strictly off the table.

    Fitz 's expression was stricken for a moment before he hid it behind careful neutrality. He'd deserved that. In their new dynamic, he knew that if he wanted to keep anything at all of the friendship they'd enjoyed, he would need to both keep some distance emotionally, and also try to accept that the Fool believed wholeheartedly in his Dreams. "I'm sorry," He said again. "Please do. We haven't seen much of each other at all lately."

    Once again, the temptation to throw himself at Fitz and tell him everything and beg his forgiveness almost overwhelmed the Fool. He managed to resist, however, and nodded. "We shall see each other when we ought," he replied. Bowing, he backed through the door and disappeared down the hallway.

    Fitz accepted the almost-rejection silently, not bothering to bid farewell to the Fool. Once he was alone, he rose to shut and latch his door, and then threw himself onto his bed again. He should have been the one angry, he thought. His anger had mostly dissipated though, and he regretted the small show of bitterness he'd given the Fool. He'd ruined their friendship by wanting more, and he'd ruined the Fool's happiness with his spite. Could he try again to mend things, or should he accept that he'd lost his closest friend? He wasn't sure. Miserably, he turned and buried himself in the covers.

 

_     “It has occurred to me that there were many occasions on which I was less than kind to Fitz--rude, even. I believe my acidity was a direct effort not to reveal the true depths of my feelings for him, especially on those occasions when he was not aware of such affection. This does not excuse the behaviour, but he seems long ago to have forgiven me for this, nearly as quickly as I have always forgiven him for his insults and unkindness. No two people can expect to know each other their whole lives without conflict. I think, when compared to some others, the hostility between Fitz and I was--and still is--quite mild.” _

_ \-- Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	15. On Commencement and Companionship - Perception

_ I have never understood King Shrewd’s attitude toward his youngest son. Shrewd he was named, but that one blind spot ultimately led to his demise. How different things would have been if Regal had been less ambitious of a man, or if Queen Desire had not nurtured that trait in him and planted the seed of treason in his young mind. Or would they have been? My father would still have abdicated the throne, leaving Verity next in line to rule. The Raiders would still have attacked and forged our people. Shrewd would, perhaps, have lived a while longer, but all of the necessary pieces for Verity’s eventual journey into the mountains would have been in place. It is probable that I would still have been killed for my magic--perhaps permanently, since Regal’s guards might not have beaten me badly enough for me to take poison. What’s done is done, though, and this sort of speculation has always been the Fool’s domain, not mine. It is useless to wonder. Perhaps I seek to ascribe to Regal more blame than is his due, because of my own dislike of him. Perhaps I would try to find some reason or purpose behind all of his abuse and cruelty to lessen the pain of those memories. Whatever the reason, I feel compelled to put these thoughts to writing, and so I do. _

_     Shrewd doted on Regal, though whether it was done purely out of affection or to win his loyalty, I cannot say. Verity, he largely ignored or commanded. This was a mistake, I think, but could have been his way of pushing Verity to develop those traits of assertiveness and decisiveness that Shrewd so valued in Regal. Me, he chose to buy. I took my oath to him seriously, but I cannot help but be dismayed at Shrewd’s inability to know what each of us needed most from him.  _

_     He did something right where it concerned the Fool. The Fool was wholly devoted to Shrewd in all the time he served him, so far as I have been able to tell. Alone as he was during his childhood in Buckkeep, perhaps Shrewd was to him what Chade was to me. Odd to think that we have not spoken of such things, but those memories are often painful for us both. For me, at least, it is easier to let the words flow as ink on paper than to give them voice. There they are silent and vulnerable; able to be destroyed as though they’d never existed, with a toss of paper into flames. Still, I continue this futile exercise.  _

_     I digress. In the end, I suppose the only conclusion I can reach is that King Shrewd was only a man, and we are all flawed in our own ways. He loved his son, and I cannot fault him for that. _

 

    Sometimes, it seemed to the Fool that the King wanted him around, simply for the sake of having another person in the room when he thought aloud, so that he did not appear to be talking to himself. Thus, the Fool was not surprised to see the servants setting up Shrewd's antechamber for a light meal with another person while he himself remained unaddressed in the corner by the hearth. This may have been seen as an insult to anyone else, but the Fool actually enjoyed the spot. The hearthstones warmed his usually cold body, and he had a full view of the faces of anyone else at the table, except for the King himself. He knew Shrewd's body language so well, however, that he could tell how the King was reacting to things. He contented himself with sketching a small buck on the stones with a discarded charred piece of wood from last night's fire while he waited. He was shocked into idleness, however, when he saw who walked through the door.

    With the death of his mother, Regal felt he had lost his only true ally in the family. Perhaps this was the gods' revenge for not mourning Chivalry's death, or more likely it was a plot to keep the Duchies plunged in a backwards and unsuccessful rule. One good thing had come of it, however: Regal was now the main object of his father's attentions. The King had even more control over the coffers than the Queen had, and Regal had not hesitated to accept all the gifts offered to him. When his father summoned him to a small lunch that day, it felt to Regal more like a summons befitting a Prince rather than simply a son. He boldly declared the door be thrown open and strode in, resplendent in high fur boots, bright purple silks with stark white lace, and a silken cape. His hair was well oiled into fragrant curls and he had adorned himself with the finest quality of powders and perfumes. Let anyone try to mock him now, and Regal would bring the full might of his newfound power down upon them

    Shrewd was not agitated. He made it a rule to never become agitated when he could help it. Instead, he preferred to take a step back and ponder things over carefully, swirling the facts around in his mind like a fine wine in his mouth. It was never wise to make a hasty decision, and even more foolhardy to make that decision when it could be swayed by emotion. Verity had always been the most impulsive of his sons: too blunt and honest for politics, and with no appreciation for the subtleties involved in ruling a kingdom. He had been a fine second son, but as his heir Verity was proving to be frustrating. Shrewd rumbled a sigh and looked up from his thoughts when his youngest, Regal, entered. He nodded at the boy with approval in his gaze. For all his failings and tendency to act on his emotions, Regal was at least able to understand the ways of people in a way that Verity was not. He knew the importance of appearance, of connections, and of influence. He supposed that in some ways, his damned mother had taught him well. He could only hope to undo some of her less savoury teachings. "Regal," he greeted, allowing some of his approval and affection to show in his tone. "Be seated. We have much to discuss, you and I."

    Regal tried to keep his smile one of close lipped satisfaction instead of the wide-open and praise-hungry smile of a child. That would not do for a Prince. Sweeping his cape up, he gracefully took a seat in the chair opposite King Shrewd, waiting only a moment before helping himself to a thinly sliced bit of cheese. This was a meal of equals, and Regal intended to treat it as such. He caught a flash of colour by the hearth and levelled a malevolent gaze at the Fool. He should not have been there, the disloyal creature, but at least he was relegated to the floor and not raised above the filth he was. Regal knew this meeting was centred around him, and he counted on his father's support against any unwelcome distractions.

    As Shrewd was facing Regal and not him, the Fool felt neither shame nor apprehension in returning Regal's glare. He did not hate the Prince--the Fool did not consider himself capable of hating anyone--but every time the two were in the same room together Regal did something to upset him. Now he was strutting about with more importance than he was due, and would probably not listen at all to Shrewd's discourse on the OutIslanders. After all, that had to be what the meeting was about. Nothing else could possibly create such a serious air at the time...or nothing else should.

    Shrewd noted Regal's confidence and decided that he welcomed it, even as he also noticed that the young man was unable to help but send a mean look toward where the Fool was playing by the hearth like a child. Regal's ambition was a good thing, but it would not do for the boy to get too far ahead of himself. He was ruled by his emotions as his mother had been, and if that were not tempered with wisdom then Shrewd was well aware of all that could go wrong. It would be a sad thing, for all of Regal's potential to go to waste. "I had a conversation with Verity earlier this morning," Shrewd began. He had phrased the opening carefully. Let Regal know that he had spoken with his elder brother  _ first _ to remind him not to overstep himself. Shrewd watched Regal's face carefully.

    Regal’s eyes narrowed fractionally, but he quickly composed himself and spoke in a respectful tone. "I am certain Verity had some valuable insights," he responded, though he actually had no idea what Shrewd had talked to him about. Probably the barbarians plaguing the coast. Well, better they carry of twenty villagers here or there than try to storm the Keep or capture land. 

    The Fool thought that Verity would have quite a bit more than a few valuable insights. He was the soldier of the family, and as much as it was awful to say, this was war. The Fool went back to his drawing, but he was fully listening to the conversation of his superiors. The self-assured tone of Regal's voice grated on him, and he realized with some amusement that it was the same tone used by puppetmasters for pompous lords in satirical plays.

    "And what is it you wished to discuss with  _ me _ ?” Regal prompted. “You said there was much."

    Shrewd observed and drew his conclusions. Regal was unhappy about the reminder, and he wished to establish his own importance. Very well. A healthy bit of rivalry might be a useful tool to motivate Regal to better himself. "The same matter, actually," Shrewd revealed. He took a sip from his cup of tea and then set it down again, off to the side. A removal of a small barrier between them and a show of openness. "We've had three more raids in close succession. Verity believes that the solution is to increase our military presence, and he has urged me to issue an edict regarding a unified response to the Raiders' hostage taking. He is as impulsive as ever. I would like to hear your thoughts on the matter."

    Shrewd wanted to  _ what? _ The Fool was shocked:  Regal probably had no more idea how to deal with any real threats than a dog had an idea of how to catch his tail. The Fool focused his eyes on the charcoal buck on the stones, but he was now making it the bigger, darker, more imposing buck that Verity wore instead of the thin yearling buck that Regal had made his own personal crest. 

    Regal let a small noise of dismay pass his lips, much like a wet nurse tutting over her charge. "If we openly take military action against the Raiders, our people will panic. They will think we are in a full-blown war, and it will be even harder for us to control them--to keep them safe. If they are fleeing their homes, then we will not be able to account for those actually missing. No, I believe a gentler hand is needed here."

    Shrewd heard the Fool, but disregarded his displeasure. The Fool had been nearly useless regarding the decision at hand, and a child knew nothing of the ways of statecraft or warfare, no matter what odd magics he was gifted with. "You echo my own thoughts, Regal," Shrewd said approvingly. "Better to tread carefully and find a quiet solution if we can. We were once a warrior people, but not any longer. Ours is a plentiful land, and we've become soft. Even if we were to train every able bodied man or woman to hold a sword in hand, we would be slaughtered. The defeat would cost us in people, resources, and morale. I have agreed to fund the building of a few ships to protect the coasts and to send out what guards we can spare, but I will not declare war. Not at this time. Raids are nothing new. The OutIslanders simply grow a bit more ambitious."

    The Fool had had enough of this. He leaped to his feet. "The OutIslanders turn our people into something less than human! These are not the same raids you have been staving off for years, and both of you know it! Have you no regard for the common folk of the kingdom? Yes, you are safe, but where would you be without farmers to provide your grain or tailors to sew your fine silks or landowners to pay your taxes? If you allow these raids to continue, the OutIslanders will pick away at the kingdom like a worm inside a rotten fruit until there is  _ nothing left _ . And by the time you see fit to properly address the issue, the people will have lost such faith in you that no one will fight for you, and you will end up burned and buried the way the folk 'below' you are! Prince Verity, at least, is trying to take a stand, while Regal--" He purposely omitted the honourific-- "would rather not bear the inconvenience of having to leave his ball early to deal with the death and destruction at our front gates!" His outburst had left a high colour on his cheeks, and his feet were planted squarely towards Regal and Shrewd. Let them strike him, let them throw him out, let them lock him in the dungeons. The Fool knew Shrewd would not dispose of him, and the King had long ago tasked him with helping the kingdom to run. He was merely following that order.

    Regal went so red he was almost purple and stood, nearly upsetting his cup of tea. A few drops spilled over the edges and all the crockery rattled as he pushed himself away from the table. "I have had enough of your insolence, Fool!" It came out as more of a shriek than a boom. It was bad enough that a freakish servant dared to disrespect him so, but that his father held the thing in high council all of those years that Regal had been omitted was unthinkable. An urge passed over him to push the stupid creature into the hearth fire, but he did not want to lose what good favour he had just curried with his father."These matters do not concern you, and King Shrewd did not ask for your opinion. You ought to be grateful you were not left in whatever market you were found in, or sent back to a place that no doubt did not want you! Leave the ruling to the ruling family, you pathetic, empty-headed simpleton!"

    Shrewd fought the urge to sigh. This was precisely the weakness in Regal's character, and it was a weakness that he would not tolerate in any son of his. Time, Shrewd hoped, would cure Regal of his childish temper. It had not done so for his late queen, though, and Shrewd did not place much stock in such fanciful things as hope. Hope was an excuse to turn a blind eye to a problem, and ignoring a problem often did more harm than good. "Regal," he said calmly but firmly. "You demonstrate a fine mind where politics are concerned, but that will do you no good if you undo all of your hard work with an impulsive, emotional slip of the tongue. A leader must be able to control himself in all situations, and not fly into a temper at the slightest provocation. Sit down and compose yourself as befits a prince of the blood." Shrewd turned in his seat to look at his outspoken Fool. The child had created a useful moment for the teaching of his youngest son, but he thought that perhaps the Fool put too much stock in the words of Verity and of Chade. "Peace, Fool. I will always welcome your input, but I will not have the two of you fighting like children in my chambers. By your words you believe that the Raids will continue despite the action I have permitted Verity to take?"

    Regal could not believe that the Fool had gotten away with his disrespect while he himself had been placed aside like a child. He dropped back into his seat, seething. His arms were crossed over his chest, but he realized this looked childish and let them fall to his sides. This was his meeting with the King and his opinion being asked for, not that of someone who ought not have even been permitted inside. He did not listen to the Fool's next words, but concentrated instead on what he was going to say when he was allowed to speak again.

    Shrewd could feel Regal's discontent radiating from him across the table, and he did not even need to use his Skill to do so. He needed to learn from this, not fall into a dudgeon. 

    The Fool took a deep breath. He dropped his eyes respectfully, embarrassed that he had reacted in such a manner. "No, my king. I believe the Raids will continue if you do  _ not _ allow Prince Verity the action he needs to take. He has always been a strategist, sir, you yourself have admitted this. As sparse as these Raids are, they are already acts of war. We cannot turn a blind eye, and Prince Verity has conceived a solid plan to drive them back, but he needs the full support of everyone in the kingdom, including his family."

    Shrewd nodded at the Fool tolerantly and then turned back to Regal. "Stop your sulking and observe. A leader who cannot stand to be disagreed with will soon become a tyrant. Tyrants seldom have the love of their people, and they seldom hold their power long. Do you understand? You must not see disagreement as an insult: only information to be used. Now. I welcomed the Fool to share his opinion, even though it differs from my own. He is calmer and immediately more respectful. Better that he feel valued, than angry because he has been scolded. Anger breeds resentment, which would undermine his loyalty. Fool, you are correct that Verity is of a military mind. As such, I have given him leave to command the defences of our coasts as he sees fit with what resources we can spare. Does this please you?"

    The Fool nodded. "Yes, sir. It had just seemed to me, based on the course of the conversation, that you had the intention of stopping Prince Verity from successfully defending our coasts."

    "It only seemed that way because our discussion was far too advanced for one as young and insignificant as yourself," Regal returned. He was no longer sulky nor angry, he was simply exercising his imperial righteousness. He thought his father might understand. Taking on a lecturing tone, he said: "You are just a child, and a servant at that. Perhaps if you were further along in the course of a better life, our words would make more sense to you, and you would not misinterpret them so gravely."

    Shrewd could see quite a lot of Desire in Regal. He had tolerated much from his lady wife, but he hated to see her failings corrupting their son. Unfortunately, it seemed that his arrogance was firmly engrained in his personality. Much as Desire's had been. "You were not entirely incorrect, Fool. As I discussed with Regal, I refuse to believe that we are in open war. Four raids are not a war, and the OutIslanders have made no move to take land from us. I have given Verity leave to strengthen our defences if he believes he will be able to, but I will not call this a war, nor will I treat it as such. I will make no edict regarding the hostages, and I will undertake no attacks on the OutIslands." Shrewd returned his gaze to Regal, and wondered if he would mark the differences in their approach. "Who do you suppose the Fool feels more kindly toward in this moment? I, who refused him politely, or you who commented on his ignorance?”

    "I don't care how he feels towards anyone," Regal commented in an offhand manner. "The attitudes of our lessers do not concern me; only those with political sway."

    The Fool waited until Regal was finished talking, but ignored him anyways. "Prince Verity has spoken of warships, sir, which would defend our waters far better than the poor folk can defend their own land. With all due respect, sir, I think this is a wise idea, and I believe it will keep our people from such dark magicks that the OutIslanders surely possess."

    King Shrewd ignored the Fool in order to continue lecturing Regal. It was something that he did more often than he had had to do with Chivalry or bothered to do with Verity, but Regal had such promise. If only he would tame that pride of his. "The notions that your mother put into your head..." Shrewd shook his head. "I am glad that you see the value in powerful allies. Too often your elder brother neglects those parts of his duty. If you could reconcile your differences, I believe that you two would complement one another's talents splendidly. However, a ruler must have the respect of his people. You are my third son, but you would still be wise to remember that. The opinions of the common people have much sway over the opinions of their dukes, and the dukes in turn can ask the King's justice."

    "There is a difference between common people and freaks like that," Regal replied with a dirty look towards the Fool. "At least the common people hold some value for us. What is he but a misguided performer who does not know when to be silent or how to keep his place?" 

    Shrewd smiled, and it was one that cradled the secret behind his lips. "You might be surprised, Regal, but it is not my knowledge to share and it seems that you and I understand one another. Good." Shrewd clasped his hands on the table before him and looked at his son. It seemed, at least, that Regal understood the value of the public's opinion. He also understood Shrewd's desire for caution in dealing with the OutIslanders. If Verity were to charge off to battle and get himself killed, at least Shrewd could be reasonably confident that Regal would do well as his successor. Of course, he still had a long way to go to rid the foolish boy of the remains of his mother's influence. If only Verity had half his instinct for politics, a trifle more patience, and some confidence in his decisions. Shrewd may have disagreed with him on the matter of the hostages, but Verity had been cowed far too easily. If only Desire hadn't sown such jealousy in Regal, perhaps the two of them could have worked together. 

    But, what was done was done. Shrewd was king still, and he hoped to remain so for many years yet. Perhaps Verity would wed a woman who could be his voice with the people, and Regal had time to grow out of his immaturity. Of course, to have any influence over Regal at all, Shrewd would need to win his affection. He had no illusions about what poisonous words Desire would have had regarding him. "Duke Shemshy of Shoaks has expressed his gratitude regarding the resolution of the matter with Duke Kelvar by providing us with two fine horses with southern blood and good tempers. You may speak with Burrich about having one for yourself."

    "So long as he doesn't overstep his bounds," Regal sneered. "Even your stablemaster is forgetting how to respect royalty, and he was Chivalry's right hand! The only servants with any deference are my own, and that is because I keep them on a tight leash."

    The Fool thought that Regal could have at least thanked his father, but that thought was overshadowed by the immense gratitude he felt that his king did not betray his secret. He hoped Regal would leave soon.

    "Encourage their respect, but treat your people well, and you'll find that they treat you well in return," Shrewd said. "Chivalry was exceptionally talented in that regard, though he had his own failings in the end."

    "Right. Well, that did not serve him very well, did it?" Regal asked snidely. "Excuse me, father." He rose and swept out of the room. 

    Shrewd at last allowed himself to sigh and picked up his cup of tea again, taking a long drink and wishing that it were something stronger. He needed a clear head, though, and he had seen enough of what drugs and alcohol could do to a person. "Well, Fool, do you have anything else to add?"

    "Please, sir. Don't let Prince Regal decide anything important for the kingdom. He reins himself in around you, but when he is alone he is no more than a bully. Forgive my forwardness."

    Shrewd gestured at the empty spot across from himself. "I find myself short a dining companion. Join me." He set his cup down and waited until the Fool could be settled. "Do not think me blind to the festering treason in his eyes. His mother planted it there and it has growing there ever since." 

    The Fool took Regal's empty place with a hesitation only long enough to switch the cushion with a different chair. He did want to sit anywhere where Regal's powdered behind had been. He looked at King Shrewd as an equal. "I do believe you are only strengthening his resolve, sir.”

    "Do you? His mother and that fawning bastard she imagined I didn't know about were the ones to encourage him, in my opinion." Shrewd said, taking up a piece of bread. "But, if it is as you say, then what am I to do? Kill my own son? Exile him and give him cause to go to war with me? No. It may take time, but I hope to give him proper instruction and rid him of that stubborn pride of his. He's a good lad beneath it, though I suppose you've never seen that. He is petty and jealous, but he adored his mother and for a time, me as well. He was such a sweet child when he had a mind to be." 

    If it had been anyone else, the Fool would have snorted with laughter. As it was, he looked aside with a smile. “Of course, my King," was all he answered.

    "Think me a doting parent if you wish," Shrewd said tolerantly, noticing the Fool's smile. "I find it hard to forget the small boy trotting along to keep up with his older brothers, and smiling up at me with pride to tell me he'd learned some new skill...Well, that's enough of an old man's reminiscences. I am aware that he holds ambitions beyond those he should rightfully have. Now, I suppose that you agree with Verity not only about the warships, but about the hostages as well. Have you any foresight to support your opinion?" This was not asked mean-spiritedly, but rather curiously. If the Fool were able to use his magic to determine the proper course, then Shrewd would listen.

    Unfortunately, the Fool had not seen anything about the Forged ones in particular, but he had Dreamed about the catastrophe. "These Raids could be the thing that breaks your kingdom. You must tread carefully, sir, for one false step might define the Age...and not in your favour." He thought it wise to stop discussing Regal.

    Shrewd nodded. He trusted the Fool not to lie to him, and he had not been wrong. The boy could easily have said he'd seen the answer in a dream, but he had not. Shrewd appreciated that loyalty. "Treading carefully is precisely what I intend to do, and that is why I have not yet issued an official order." Shrewd did not know why he sought to explain himself. Perhaps it was only because he could, and because he had so few people whose tongues he could trust not to wag. Chade was one of those people, but Chade also had ambition. Shrewd was wary of that. "Verity suggested that the Raider-sickness could be the result of some drug. Until I am sure that the condition is irreversible, I am reluctant to condemn my people to death. At the same time, I cannot command them to slay their loved ones. So, I will wait until I hold more information before making my decision." 

    "Of course, my lord," the Fool replied. "I too will try to see what I can, and you shall know right away." He paused. "Did FitzChivalry report to you on his assignment, sir?"

    "I had my report from Chade, not the boy." Shrewd answered. "And what do you know of his assignment?"

    The Fool set his jaw firmly. "I know that without him, Lord Kelvar would never have yielded. You owe the security of your people to Fitz."

    "And what else do you know, Fool? I am not upset with you. Only curious. It seems that you have the boy's confidence in many matters."

    "What else do you want to know if I know, sir?" the Fool asked slyly. "I must ask you to be more specific. If I am to properly serve you, that is."

    Shrewd chuckled at the Fool's boldness. Few others would dare to avoid a question of his so obviously. "It seems that you don't want to break his confidence in you. Very loyal." Shrewd was left with an ultimatum. Order the Fool to tell him everything, or let him keep his secrets as a demonstration of trust. The first would yield immediate results, and possibly remind the Fool to whom he had pledged his loyalty; the second would earn him gratitude. The matter was not so urgent yet, but he resolved that he would speak with Chade regarding the bastard's friendship with the Fool. If Chivalry's son had somehow won away the Fool's loyalty, he would be an even larger threat. At worst, the Fool could lead Shrewd wrongly with false prophecies, while ensuring that the boy would be in a position to take the throne. Yes, there was danger there. All the more reason to continue cultivating the Fool's devotion to him. His silence hung just long enough to let the Fool be reminded where his loyalty should have fallen, and then he spoke: "That's fine, Fool. I will not ask you to betray a friend. Why did you ask me if I'd received his report?"

    "Well...because I wanted you to know how much you owed to him sir. As King, you should know how each tiny piece of your kingdom works. Besides," he added, "this only adds to his value to the throne, is that not so, sir?"

    Shrewd nodded slowly. "Yes, I suppose you are correct. Chade seems to be under the impression that the boy inherited Chivalry's luck and his knack for diplomacy. As long as he is firmly mine, I see no reason to be concerned by that. He could be valuable indeed. I suppose that you intended to remind me of this because of your friendship with the boy?"

    Cursing himself for being so transparent, the Fool said, "I suppose so sir, but his role is more important than one of mere friendship."

    Shrewd turned the Fool's words over in his mind. "Important by your prophecy?"

    The Fool chose not to answer that, deciding instead to butter a thick slice of bread and take a bite. Shrewd would probably think that was a yes, but he would also know the Fool wished to share no more.

    The King nodded again, as though nothing were amiss. Privately, he wondered whether he would not soon have to worry about the Fool's loyalty. He reached over to pat the Fool on the head, kindly. "You're a good lad. As always, I appreciate your council. Regal may sneer and glower all he likes, but I'll be sure he does no more than that. You've my word."

    With Shrewd's gentle gesture, the Fool was reminded of his disloyalty. "Yes, by the Prophecy," he sighed. "This is why I told you so long ago you could not have him killed, sir."

    "Yes, I thought as much at the time," Shrewd said, giving the Fool a fond smile. "Truthfully, I did not want to do it, so I'm grateful that you gave me a good reason not to. If the Lady Patience had not been quite so distressed, things may have gone very differently for the boy. As it is, at least the boy seems to be doing well."

    "I am also grateful," said the Fool with a soft smile. "I have never thanked Lady Patience for her role in his salvation. I ought to do so."

    "I understand that she intends to visit court," Shrewd said. "Of course, changeable as she is, it may never happen. You may have your chance, though...She insisted that he live, but would not acknowledge him either. If you plan to thank her for one, would you condemn her for the other?" Shrewd was curious. Chivalry's son had certainly won this strange creature over. How badly the Fool wanted to see FitzChivalry on the throne would be a useful piece of information.

    "No," said the Fool, "I cannot condemn her. FitzChivalry wanted nothing to do with his father; I cannot imagine he would want to know his father's wife either. Besides, from what I know of her, she would speak of Chivalry far too much for him to be comfortable."

    Shrewd hummed thoughtfully. "That's good. You're a good lad, Fool, to bear her no ill will. Lady Patience loved my Chivalry quite wholeheartedly, and she was distraught when news of the boy's existence came to court. Distraught enough to consent to Chivalry's abdication. I do believe that she hated the boy, though it was no fault of his own that he was born..." Shrewd paused to sip his tea, and then continued. "After a few months, though, her attitude changed. I had correspondence with Chivalry suggesting that Patience had decided to have the raising of the boy, and wanted him sent to them at Withywoods." Shrewd watched the Fool's face carefully while he told the tale.

    It was very lucky that Fitz had not been sent to Withywoods, although it probably would have been after their initial meeting. He would have been able to track his Catalyst at that point, but he would have had to betray his King to do so. He kept his expression carefully neutral and simply nodded.

    "But," Shrewd said with finality, when the Fool made no response, "I suppose that it is neither here nor there, now...Tell me, Fool, do you ever regret coming to this place?"

    "No!" The word was practically startled out of the Fool. "I could never regret coming to Buckkeep, sir."

    "Good. I had worried for a time that you would be unhappy. If ever you are, you may come to me. Understood?" King Shrewd asked this with a grandfatherly smile and a crinkle to his eyes. Truly, he had grown fond of the odd little fellow, but one must always be wary of treachery. He would speak to Chade at his next opportunity to see if he could not learn more about the situation. Until then, he would do what he could to ensure that the Fool had no reason to dislike him.

    "I understand, sir. But as long as Fi--my first loyalty remains to the crown, I have no reason to be unhappy. Besides, I swore an oath, and I have no intention of breaking it."

    Shrewd was too much like his name not to notice the small slip, but he showed no reaction to it. "I did not intend any insult to your honour, Fool. I only wanted you to know that I am a reasonable man. Now, I believe that I have some business to attend to. There never seems to be an end to the dukes' grumbling. You may have your afternoon to do with what you will." 

    The Fool nodded and stood, cutting a respectful bow. "Thank you, sir. I wish you luck with the dukes." He smiled at Shrewd and backed out of the room.

 

_     “With the death of Queen Desire, Prince Regal became even more insufferable, a feat that surprised me at the time. Now, not so much; I have seen enough of the world and the ways of people to know that they always have the capacity for greater evil. _

_     “The increase in Regal’s wickedness, however, was tied directly to the sudden dotage he received from King Shrewd. Before, Regal had never been paid much attention by his father, save on his Life Days or at a formal event. After Desire’s passing, the two of them met at least once a week for tea, and Shrewd granted unconditional permission to Regal to use the coffers for whatever he desired, within reason. Regal stretched the term ‘reason’ very far. The King also took to bestowing gifts upon Prince Regal, and to granting him political power that he was not yet responsible enough to put to good use. _

_     “A neglect of Verity stemmed from this, and a blind eye to how corrupt Regal truly was. Shrewd could feel himself aging, having lost so many people around him, and such a predicament made him overlook these crises just long enough for them to become his ruin. _

_     “As much as I tried to help my King, I found myself powerless in the face of true power, and I had no choice but to succumb to the reality of failing to protect the King who had sworn to protect me.” _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	16. On Commencement and Companionship - Exhortation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry for the wait, everyone! Thank you for your patience.

_ Lady Patience, my father’s wife, had every reason to hate me, her husband’s bastard son. I was proof that Chivalry Farseer could sire a child somewhere, and that if he lacked for a legitimate heir, it must have been some fault of hers. Still, she became my unlikely ally in my time at Buckkeep. She knew more of the goings on at court than she let on, I think. Many times she surprised me with an astute comment or a remark that indicated some awareness of the dangers of life at court. Her eccentricities allowed others to dismiss her, and also allowed her to get away with some behaviours that would have been intolerable in anyone else. _

 

The good news, as far as Verity was concerned, was that King Shrewd had decided to settle the debate about the OutIslanders once and for all today. The bad news was that there was still a chance that Regal and his ideas might prevail. Verity had gotten very little sleep in the past week, reading up on all the scrolls on the OutIslanders and trying to see what they were doing to the people. He did not discover any abilities that were akin to the magic they worked on the Duchies folk, but he did his best not to despair. When he had finished his readings and knew some about their battle strategies and naval construction, Verity began sketching designs for his own warships, which were engineered specifically to target the weaknesses in the enemy's. He tucked these scrolls under his arm as he rushed down to his father's audience chambers, hoping he had had enough foresight (and perhaps had even been shrewd enough) to impress his father.

    Regal had undertaken no such preparations. His own had involved a good soak, his best clothes, and some scented oils imported from Jamaillia. It wasn't as though he had anything to fear. He knew his father well enough to know what the old man wanted to hear. If he spoke it to him well, then Shrewd would side with him, and Verity would look the fool. Regal could not suppress a small smirk at that as he strode toward his father's audience chambers. He had a small entourage of his closest admirers, but he waved them away as they drew closer. He only needed them to see that he'd been going to see his father. The more often he was seen in his father's company, the more people might believe that he was being groomed for the throne. The more people believed it, the more likely it was that it would become true. He narrowed his eyes when he heard footsteps and saw Verity coming down the corridor behind him, arms laden with rubbish. It was petty, he knew, but he walked a bit quicker so that he would be the first one to arrive. It was a small pleasure to make up for the fact that he could not trip Verity in full view of his father's guards.

    Shrewd allowed the guards to admit his two boys, and looked on them as they entered. They were as opposite to one another as brothers could be: Verity with his haggard appearance and stained hands, and Regal with his finery. He knew that they would oppose one another in views as well, and he hoped that they had the maturity to do it without shouting. "Verity, Regal," he greeted from his seat.

   The Fool, sitting once more on the hearth, greeted both Princes as they entered, Regal with barely a nod and Verity with a grin and a wave. He did not speak, for he intended to better keep his place this time. The hearthstones were not as warm today, but perhaps that was just because of the chill between the two Princes.

    "Father," Verity dipped his head respectfully and gave the Fool a kind smile before taking his place. He sat so that he could see the window, for it had become a dark and unbreakable habit of his always to watch the horizon. He hoped his constant vigilance might help his people.

    "Father," Regal greeted as well, with a much more elaborate bow than his half-brother's. He strode with his chin up to take a seat at the table, and made no move to help Verity with his burden. It would serve him right if he were to drop something.

    Shuffling around, Verity adjusted his scrolls on his lap. He would not crowd the table with them until he had an opportunity to explain them more fully, or until he was asked for his ideas. Once he was situated, he looked at his father with full attention.

"Good then," Shrewd began. "We will proceed directly to business, since the two of you seem to be so eager." And because he knew from practice that any exchange of pleasantries between his two sons would likely lead to a squabble. "The ruling of the Six Duchies is my responsibility as King, but it is my belief that the two of you should each have some hand in the proceedings. I summoned you here because I have given long and careful thought to the matter of the Red-ship Raiders that have been plaguing our shores. First though, I will hear you speak your minds. Verity, begin." 

    The Fool was glad that Verity was being given a chance to speak first. He was afraid that Shrewd's recent doting upon his youngest son might muddle his priorities, but his King lived up to his name. The Fool also marked the way Verity's posture straightened, as if he was eager to share his ideas. If he spoke well enough, Regal's suggestion might not even be necessary.

Verity nodded, a spark lighting behind his eyes, full of determination and promise. He first laid out an old map of the OutIslands, naming each one as he pointed to it: both as the names they had been rightfully given and the ones by which they were colloquially called in the Six Duchies. "In my readings, I have discovered that the dialect differs slightly between the islands, as well as the symbolism for the various clans living there. It may be too subtle for us to pick up on, but on my campaigns I have met quite a few immigrants from the Islands, who want nothing to do with their people's barbaric ways. If we can hire them, they may be able to tell us which islands the majority of the Raiders hail from. Furthermore, they will be able to give us an insight into the fighting techniques for which I could find no information. I have served alongside some of them; good people. Even if they cannot reach us before the next raid, the clans on the islands have remained almost constant. When next we see the OutIslander ships, whether we defeat them or not, we can again determine from which islands they sail. Once we determine that, we will know the best places to position our own ships to impede their progress and hopefully shop them from even seeing our shores. 

    “Our ships, of course--" And here he laid out another large scroll, this one in his own hand-- "should be designed like so. The Redships are fast, but they are also dense, and manned by a larger crew than one would expect on a craft that size. Not only would our ships be more hydrodynamic, but they would use less wood and fewer sailors, allowing us to build more ships and more crews. Furthermore, by making our ships lightweight, we can use mostly our own wood. The only thing we would need to trade for would be the large trees for the masts. These we can negotiate with the Mountain folk, as they have often been our allies before. Our inland Duchies are still relatively secure, so if we send the Mountainers some of the extra harvest from there, they should be willing to strike a deal with us. 

    “I also believe that if we are seen to be taking action, we will have many carpenters willing to aid in the construction of the ships. My estimate is that each will take two weeks to build, if we have a team of ten building them. The more the better, of course. See here: the large sails are able to catch the winds blowing off the shore, but the hold for the twenty rowers will allow the craft to turn quickly. If we send them out in pairs or threes, they can overrun and outmaneuver the Redships. Plus, defending our shores means our soldiers will be able to return to the Duchies each night, and so the ships will not be burdened with provisions, nor will anyone have to risk going hungry by rationing food." A glow had come to his cheeks, and he looked more alive than he had in a long time, despite his lack of sleep. With a solid plan, he believed there to be a strong chance of beating the OutIslanders.

Regal snorted in derision and gave Verity's papers a contemptuous look. "What utter nonsense, Verity. I'm ashamed to think that you spent so long on such a useless plan, but then you have always been shortsighted. You talk as though we are going to war, which we certainly are not. If I heard you correctly, you plan to hire OutIslanders to man Six Duchies ships. All well and good if they are as divorced from their homeland as you say, but there would be no way to be sure of that. You could be hiring spies and traitors to man your warships, and what then? Furthermore, how do you intend to pay for these ships of yours to be built, never mind outfitted and manned? It's a huge expense that we simply cannot afford.” Regal shook his head, and took a glance at his father’s expression before continuing.

    “As for the Mountain folk, they have only recently opened the pass to us. They may not be as open to trade as you suspect unless we make them some gesture of good faith. Are you offering yourself up to marry one of their primitive women, then? Really, Verity, after seeing you walk in with all of that, I had expected you to have come up with something more than that naive rot you just spouted." The corner of his mouth curled up in a smirk as he looked at Verity. Clearly he didn't know their father at all. Shrewd was cautious, frugal, and bordered on paranoid the way he fought to keep their borders closed. He would never agree to such a hasty plan. 

    Shrewd held up a hand. "Enough, Regal. You will have your chance to speak." He took the time to examine each of Verity's carefully drawn maps and figures, and he also used the time to consider Verity's suggestions. They were ambitious, certainly. Far more ambitious than Shrewd was generally comfortable with, but then Verity was a soldier and he knew military matters well. When he saw a problem that needed fixing, he found the most direct way to solve it. "You have put quite a lot of thought into this, Verity. You did neglect to consider the financial implications of such an endeavour, and some of the preparations will certainly take longer than you expect, but I see that you have a firm grasp of how we would best prevent the OutIslanders from reaching us..." He said no more than that, neither accepting nor rejecting Verity's plans.

    "The financial implications are the least of our worries, Father. For the time being, while our country is at war, we can simply host fewer parties, and perhaps not acquire as many fine items for ourselves." Verity made his suggestion pragmatically, not maliciously. "I am certain our people will understand; they wish the threat to be gone as much as we do. Perhaps we could even gain small sums from the Lords and Dukes who do not have watchtowers to stock. Their duty is to the crown as much as ours. Also--" He rested the remainder of the rolled up scrolls atop his warship plans. "I betook myself to copy any and all important passages about the military tactic and war customs of our enemies. It is categorized and accessible for you, if you should require it, Father. I have even added my own insights into the margins, based on all I have observed so far, and my prior military knowledge."

    "You were very thorough," Shrewd acknowledged. "Those will certainly come in handy. Regal, have you anything to add to what you've already said?" He would prefer to hear all that they had to say before he himself spoke.

    Regal drew himself up to his fullest height. "It would be utterly irresponsible to follow through with Verity's outrageous plans, father. Small sums, he says? The kingdom would be in debt to all the wealthy families of the Six Duchies, and probably Bingtown besides if they would deign to deal with us. It is simply unreasonable to expect to build and man so many ships. With so many sailors and guardsmen, who would work the fields? Leave it up to the coastal villages to defend themselves. If their own guard cannot fend the raiders off, then perhaps they ought to train harder. Give them weapons and more men, or tell them to move further inland if they're so very concerned."

    "But..." Verity's sigh seemed not only to expel the air, but also the excitement and very life from him. He sagged in his chair. "We cannot simply abandon the coasts. Surely you must know this, Father. Regal, if all who feared for their lives moved inland, Farrow and Tilth would be overrun. There would be no room for anyone to live, and the Raiders would start pillaging there soon enough." He suddenly wished for a quill, so he could write down the figures of the sums needed. "Our debts to our own Duchies would be fairly compensated by our efforts to protect them, I believe. It is not simply Buckkeep that mans the country and the Duchies that hang on like barnacles. It is a collective effort. As for Bingtown, I doubt we would need to involve them. Even if we did, it is a simple thing to pay back only one debt. And there are plenty to work the fields, even if we recruited more forces." He frowned, trying to calculate everything in his head. "I suppose what it relies on is how much is in the royal coffers. Regal, you would know this better than I."

    "As ever, your mind is on matters more befitting of a common soldier than the future ruler of our country." Regal struck a haughty pose and narrowed his eyes at Verity. "I am being practical. Arm the coastal villages and teach their men to fight so that they don't simply roll over when the raiders come, and they'll soon learn not to trifle with us. We needn't waste valuable time and resources on this elaborate endeavour of yours. I'm sure that you fantasize about winning some great war, but if matters can be solved without any more fuss than necessary, I don't see why we should bother with any of your plans."

    "But..." Verity started again. He did not know how much more clear he could be. He also did not see any course of action more practical than his current suggestion. Not having Regal's gift for words, he turned a plaintive look on his father for support, begging him to see reason.

    Prince Verity needed help with words, and words were the Fool's specialty. He stood, padded silently barefoot over to the King's side, and tugged gently on his sleeve. "If I may speak, sir?" he requested.

    Shrewd had been watching the debate play out with interest and enjoying, in an academic way, the chance to observe the characters of his two remaining sons. Regal was a young man who knew how to manipulate others, and Shrewd appreciated that quality to an extent. Verity was, on the other hand, nearly oblivious to matters of the mind, so grounded was he in practical, physical things. He had devised a straightforward plan and Shrewd could see that he had devised it for the benefit of the people. He turned to the Fool when the boy tugged at his sleeve and thought himself lucky. Their meeting was proving very valuable for the insights it would give him. He had, of course, already made up his mind regarding the Raiders. "Speak, Fool. If we are all here and discussing matters, I see no reason why you should not."

    Regal gave the Fool and his father a look of outrage. "Father, you cannot be serious! Him? He is not of the royal family! He should not even be in this room, never mind sticking his nose into matters which he clearly does not have the capacity to understand!"

    Shrewd levelled a quelling glance at Regal. "Are you not confident enough of your opinions to be able to defend them against a fool?"

    Regal fumed at the insult and threw his nose into the air. His arms he crossed across his chest. "Fine, then. Let the idiot speak."

    The Fool clambered up onto the one unoccupied chair at the table. Even standing on it, he did not tower over the men. "Prince Regal," he addressed the youngest son, "Do you know how to forge a sword? Do you know how to cobble shoes? Do you know how to build a house?" He paused just long enough to give Regal time to think of an answer, but not say it. "You were not trained to do these things because the people who raised you never once fathomed you would have to. Just as blacksmiths and cobblers and carpenters were never trained to fight. No one could have possibly anticipated this, and so they saw no need to learn." Another dramatic pause to let his words sink in. They seemed almost scripted, with the way he formed each word delicately enough that it sounded as though it curled through the air. 

    "Now, imagine if someone burst into your chambers tomorrow at high noon, shoved raw leather into your hands, and told you to cobble a shoe by midnight or you would die. Imagine this same person had to visit each noble in the castle individually, and thus could only spend half an hour instructing you in this art. Even with the advice of an expert, you would only be marginally better off than you were before. And once they had gone and you were forced to fend for yourself, the shoe you cobbled would no doubt be less than mediocre." He nodded in turn to Shrewd and Verity to let them know he was addressing all of them despite only speaking to Regal. "Now, do you not suppose that your shoes would turn out much better if all the nobles were gathered in one place and the master could instruct you all day? While the shoes made would not reflect the master's quality, they would be wearable. Do you see, my lords? If we simply shove swords into the hands of the people and tell them to fight or die...they will die. If we take them in and train them, if only for a short while, both they and we will be able to work closer together to protect the kingdom."

    Verity felt a surge of gratitude at the Fool's words. The boy had explained it so simply that even Regal had to understand, and yet so artfully that there would be no disputing it. He performed far better than Verity himself ever could, and he resolved to thank the Fool in person later.

Regal spluttered. How dared that insolent little cretin speak so to a prince? "You little worm," he growled. Spots of high colour rose to his cheeks and it was all he could do not to rise from his seat and strike the Fool for his disrespect. "You speak of things you know nothing about! How do you suppose they will fare on a ship, then, as my good  _ brother _ suggests? They would have them at the bottom of the ocean within a fortnight and we would have lost everything and still be in debt, if they were not stolen by the damned OutIslander rejects that he seems so fond of. You are an idiot as well as a Fool."

    Shrewd sat back and listened, well pleased by the Fool's words. The boy had managed to inject a bit of sense that both of his sons seemed to overlook. The Six Duchies citizens were not a warlike people. Unfortunately, as much as he had been enjoying the opportunity to observe the three boys, it seemed that things would soon grow heated if he did not intervene. Regal's temper would be his downfall one day, of that Shrewd was certain. He leaned forward and set his hands down on the table. "That is enough, Regal. All of you. I believe that you've each had a chance to make your points to me?"

    The Fool hopped down off the chair and returned to his corner by the hearth. He hoped that King Shrewd would side with Prince Verity, but given his recent favouritism he was not feeling optimistic. He tried to lock eyes with Verity, but the elder Prince was looking back at his father.

    Verity nodded. "Thank you, Father. I appreciate your consideration." He wondered if either his brother or his father had really listened to his plans as he rolled up all his scrolls. "I--"

  Patience was all in a rage. She had met the boy, and he was a dead ringer for Chivalry. Even when he was inebriated, he was half-charming, and Patience was in a bind for what to do. She had brought him under her wing, of course, which was only proper. Her only regret was not having done it sooner. After seeing how the boy had been treated, she was even more upset. Why, he had not even a proper name, and he was not being treated as one of Farseer blood. Chivalry had begun learning the Skill at a much younger age, and so too must his son. She had been told that King Shrewd had forbid it, and she had to change that. Before Lacey could stop her, Patience had swept out of her chambers, a bit of dust still on the hem of her dress from kneeling on the floor with the dog and her stocking feet mismatched. She cared not. She hiked her skirts up probably farther than a woman her age ought to find decent and ran to Shrewd's chambers. Before the impulse could die and leave her with regrets, she pounded on the heavy door with the side of her fist, despite the guards' desperate entreaties.

    Shrewd sighed and did not bother to disguise it. He had just been about to settle things, and the interruption was damned untimely. It seemed urgent, though. "Fool, go and see what the matter is out there. With luck it will be dealt with quickly."

    The Fool rolled to his feet and skipped towards the door. He opened it a mere inch with the intention of peeking out and giving a very dramatic greeting, but was almost swept aside by the heavy wood as soon as he turned the handle.

    Seeing as she was being let in (of course she was being let in, they knew she would stay out there if she was not admitted and throw a fit), Patience strode boldly into Shrewd's chambers. Without sparing a glance for either of her brothers-in-law, she bore down on the King, looming over him in his chair. "Shrewd!" she rebuked. "What are you thinking?"

    Regal stared at the bizarre specimen of a woman and knew her at once as Chivalry's wife. Another example of how Chivalry had never been fit to rule. The woman was dirty, mismatched, and had no sense of decorum. His expression was one of horror.

    Shrewd was taken aback for a moment, as Lady Patience burst in like a storm cloud. "Lady Patience," he greeted. "I'm pleased to see that you've made yourself at home... My sons and I were discussing important matters. Had you something of very grave importance to bring to my attention?" One never knew with the eccentric woman. She could have been outraged at the state of the gardens, the hems on the servant's skirts, or the colour of the sky. Shrewd had never understood why Chivalry had chosen such a bride.

     "Grave importance and acute importance,  _ sir! _ " Patience’s voice rose to an outraged shriek on the last word. "Here I came to court to meet the boy that could have been my son, and I see him being treated no better than a common apprentice! The boy isn't even being taught the Skill!" She made a noise of frustration, gripping the arm of Shrewd's chair. "If you do not allow Tom to be taught, I will tear this Keep apart!"

    Verity blinked, stunned. He had met Lady Patience quite a few times, but she seemed to have gotten more wild since Chivalry's abdication. He could not really blame her, and he admired her courage.

 The Fool crept out from behind the door, closing it gently behind him. He approached the edges of the conversation and listened with interest. He knew Fitz was supposed to have been taught the other magic anyways, but was surprised that this woman was so vehement about it. All thoughts of that were swept from his head upon hearing how she addressed him, however. "Fitz!" he spoke up. "His name is FitzChivalry." For some reason, giving his Catalyst such a common name as Tom offended him.

    Shrewd leaned back and regarded Patience. He was not a man to be rushed in deciding anything. "I believe that the matter of the boy's raising was determined several years ago, Lady Patience, and you washed your hands of any responsibility then and there when my son abdicated the throne." Let her continue to speak and reveal her hand. This was interesting. FitzChivalry had won his Fool's loyalty, and now apparently that of the Lady Patience as well. How much of this was of the boy's doing, and how much was chance? With him looking so much like Chivalry, he would either be an asset or a liability.

    Regal drew himself up. The woman was mad. Clearly very, very insane. "The Skill? Such an education isn't fit for a bastard!"

    Patience whirled on Regal. "That's not up to you! You're not the King, and you've never given half a hair about your family anyways!" Not waiting for an answer, she turned back to Shrewd. "That boy is of royal blood, and he should be treated as such. Or will you shame your son's heir so?" She looked over her shoulder at the colourful creature who had piped up in protest. "What was that? Who are you?"

    "I said his name is FitzChivalry, my lady, but he goes by Fitz. Tom, I'm afraid is not a name that  _ fits _ at all." the Fool bowed to her.

    Verity very discreetly tried to edge his chair back and gather his scrolls back to himself. This had already been a heated environment, and Lady Patience did not improve it. He thought perhaps if he moved cautiously enough he could escape.

    "Enough." Shrewd spoke firmly, and raised his voice only slightly. He was a man used to the respect owed a king. "Verity, stay where you are. We haven't finished our discussion. Regal, you will hold your tongue. I have told you time and again that a prince should think before he speaks. Lady Patience, I refuse your request. I have seen to the boy's education as I saw fit, and I will not alter my decision. Moreover, the boy was never formally acknowledged as Chivalry's heir. Only his bastard." 

    "Blood will tell," Verity spoke up. "I actually think it would be wise to teach the boy, Father. If he has inherited Chivalry's gift then he could be a serious asset to us." 

    "He has just as much Farseer blood as any of your sons, sir," the Fool reasoned. "And as you have formally recognized him as your grandson, how is it possible that he is not recognized as Prince Chivalry's son?" 

    Patience nodded in satisfaction. "There. I am glad there are stable minds within the room. Listen to your son, Shrewd, and this advisor that knows the wisdom of blood. Besides, don't you think it will make him more loyal to you, to make him feel important? He's such a lonely boy."

    "Don't be absurd!" Regal shouted. His father's order be damned, he would not hold his tongue in the face of such nonsense. "Chivalry's son or not, a bastard is a bastard, and to legitimize him would cause confusion in the line of succession! The Skill is a magic for the Farseers, and not for the likes of some boy who was probably gotten on some mountain witch. Or had you forgotten that Chivalry'd taken his satisfaction outside of your marriage bed?" Regal's lip curled in a cold sneer.

    Such a cacophony. Shrewd took a  breath before intervening. "Enough, I said. I am not an unreasonable man, and I am willing to compromise. Lady Patience, if you would see the boy educated as befits a legitimate prince of the blood, then you have my blessing to see to the boy's education yourself. I will not have tutors for him, and I will absolutely not declare him a legitimate heir. The nobles would never accept him, and as Regal said, it would cause unnecessary confusion in the line of succession. It would cause civil war. Moreover, think of what it would do to an unprepared boy to plunge him directly into such instruction." He said nothing of the Skill just yet, and waited to see what Patience would have to say to that.

    "I can educate him on the fine arts, but what of the Skill? I do not possess it; that was Chivalry's domain! But you have to prepare the boy! Who knows, he could be useful with the Skill, and you will only know if he has been trained as such. Just wait until he is ready, and you can judge for yourself then." Patience huffed and crossed her arms. Regal's comment had hurt her, but had also strengthened her resolve to see that Chivalry's son was honoured. "Besides, you can do whatever you like. You're the King!"

    Verity sighed and looked down at his feet. This would prove to be a long and circular argument, and it was wasting valuable time. "Father..." he ventured, but he doubted Shrewd would bother acknowledging him in the face of the current crisis. He sighed again and unrolled the first of his scrolls of notes, making sure he had not missed a single piece of information.

    "I can do what I like only so far as I do not jeopardize my kingdom," Shrewd said firmly. "I will not legitimize the boy, and that is my final word on the matter." That having been said, he leaned back in his chair again. "However, I will grant your request that the boy be trained in the Skill. The rest of his education will be your own responsibility. Does that satisfy you?"

    Regal stood from his chair so abruptly that it slid back with an angry screech. "Father, you cannot be serious!"

    Shrewd looked at his youngest son. "Have you ever known me to be a man to jest about such matters, Regal?"

    "This is ludicrous! A bastard trained in the Skill? Have you gone senile?" Regal was livid, and his anger chased all thoughts of ingratiating himself with his father from his mind.

    The Fool had sidled up to the side of Verity's chair, and snickered at Regal's temper tantrum. "Is he jealous about a bastard being more talented than him, or angry with his own jealousy?"

    Patience let out a sigh. "Yes, thank you, Shrewd. Now, I will leave you. But I expect the boy to be sent to me first thing tomorrow morning. Good day!" She fixed Regal with a satisfied glance and exited the room as quickly as she came.

    Shrewd shut his eyes for a moment wearily. Chivalry could have had his pick of any number of better qualified women, and he had chosen Lady Patience. "Fool, close the door. Regal, sit down."

    Regal was nearly trembling with rage, and he was very tempted to take one of Verity's scrolls to chuck at the Fool's head. He looked at his father with incredulous anger. "You cannot seriously be considering training the bastard in our family's magic!"

    "He has a name!" the Fool interrupted. "He is called Fitz!" 

    "Shut up, you worthless maggot!" Regal gave in to impulse and made a grab for one of Verity's scrolls.

    Regal had a terrible habit of wrecking everything he touched that was not his, and Verity could not risk that. He struck his brother on the top of the hand before snatching the scroll away. "Leave it!"

    The Fool ducked behind Verity's chair so only his head was visible, and even that he could pull back at any time. "You just can't admit that he's better than you!"

    "Hideous freak! I will make you wish you'd never been born!" Regal started around the table to pursue the Fool.

    "And yet even without me, you would still amount to nothing but a spoiled boy that could never match the honest value of one such as Fitz! No matter who you rid yourself of, you will never become anything worth admiration!" He passed around to the other side of Verity's chair. He knew he was faster than Regal.

 Horrified, Verity stood. He spilled his armful of scrolls onto the table and reached a hand to each side: one to grab Regal's shoulder and the other to hold the Fool back. "Please, stop this!" he cried in alarm, ever the mediator.

    "Unhand me!" Regal snarled at Verity.

    "Enough, all of you!" At last, Shrewd was forced to raise his voice. "Regal, if you do not stop this childish behaviour, I will be forced to exclude you from the remainder of our discussion. Fool, stop antagonizing him, you know he cannot help himself.”

    Regal gaped at his father in openmouthed fury. How dared he side against him and call him childish? His father should have had that hideous servant of his beaten for his insolence. His mother would never have allowed a servant to speak to her son that way. Feeling betrayed, he glared at Shrewd. He could not even tell him that his mother would hear of this offence. He was alone now, and without allies among those who called themselves his family. "Pathetic," He sneered. "Allowing yourself to be bullied by a madwoman..."

    "Regal, please," Verity interjected quietly. He turned fully towards his brother, gripping both his shoulders gently now. He hoped to rekindle some of the connection they had shared as younger boys. "Brother, we must cease this. Petty quarrels are not important right now."

    The Fool could appreciate what Verity was trying to do, but hearing Regal insult Fitz one too many times made him fully defensive. When Verity's back was to him, he stuck his tongue out childishly at the younger Prince.

    "Sit at once." Shrewd ordered, and his tone said that he brooked no argument. "Thank you, Verity."

    Verity, Verity. First it had been Chivalry, and now Verity. No matter how hard Regal worked to prove himself worthy of power, King Shrewd always favoured his older sons. "I've no wish to take part in a discussion where common sense clearly has no place," Regal huffed. Pulling free of Verity's grip, hel strode from the room after sparing one last glare for the Fool.

    Verity watched his brother leave with dismay, sinking down into his chair again. He dropped his head into his hands, sighing. "Why must we fight? Why must we always fight each other? This is the last thing we need right now..."

    The Fool laid a hand on the arm of Verity's chair. "I'm sorry, my prince. It was simply that he was so disrespecting FitzChivalry, and I--"

    Verity fixed the Fool with a look. "Please, no more. You know what you did, and you know no excuses are going to fix it. Please, leave."

    Shrewd was glad at least that Regal had gone to cool his head. "You may go, Fool," Shrewd added his permission.

    The Fool bowed to both of them and exited the room, a gnawing feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach. He was shaping up to be a very poor Prophet indeed. He had a sudden urge to go find Fitz, but he doubted such a conversation would go well. Disheartened, he found his way back up his tower and sat on the edge of the bed. The shell Fitz had found for him was on his night table, and this he picked up to set in his lap. Its weight was oppressive, and he fought his rising despair as he stared at it. He would do better by Fitz. He would have to.

    "Now, Verity..." Shrewd looked at the pile of scrolls that Verity had brought. "I suppose that we can at last return to business. I have revised my opinion in light of recent raids, and I do believe that we are in a state of war. As such, I plan to instruct Skillmaster Galen to open training to all possible candidates and form a coterie or two. They will supplement our Skill, which I believe should be turned toward thwarting the Raiders where possible." Shrewd pulled Verity's diagram of the ship closer to himself and spread it out to look at it. "You may have your warships as well. However many resources will reasonably allow us to build. Remember, we must pay our soldiers for however long this war lasts, and we must feed our people as well. You won't have as many as you hoped for, but you will have something. You may also have full authority to command them. Now. You mentioned obtaining trees for the masts from the Mountain Kingdom?"

    "Thank Eda," Verity breathed. "And thank you, Father." He felt as though a tremendous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "Yes, those trees are the only things for which we will have to trade. I can start on the rest right away."

    Shrewd nodded, looking over the diagram once more, before passing it back to his son. "I'm proud of you," he said, in a rare show of affection. "You've worked hard to be able to present this plan to me, and you kept your head despite all of the chaos. You will need to work on your political skills. Do not think that you can neglect them. Nevertheless, your mind for battle tactics will doubtless prove valuable in this troubled time. I believe we've said enough on this matter for today. Soon, though, we should talk about how best to bargain with the Mountain people."

    "Yes, Father," Verity deferred. Having gotten his father to see eye to eye with him, all the fight had gone out of him. He suddenly felt very tired

    "Good. One more thing, Verity, before you go..." Shrewd paused, thinking on how best to put to words what he wished to say. "Try to forgive your brother. He was very fond of his mother, and it's no fault of his that her milk was all bitterness and spite. I would like it if you were both able to get along as brothers."

    Verity looked at the King incredulously. "Do you not think I am trying, Father? I would like nothing more than to be true brothers with Regal again."

    Shrewd held up a placating hand for peace. "I know, Verity. I know too that he can be trying at times. I only ask that you forgive him for his rudeness." Shrewd decided it best to change the subject. "You did fine work today. Continue showing such spirit in defending your opinions, and I will be very pleased. If you've nothing you'd like to say to me, you're free to go."

    Verity gathered his scrolls to his chest and stood. "Thank you again, Father. Good day." Ducking his head as he passed the King, he quickly left for the tower.

    Shrewd allowed himself another sigh when the last of his company had left the room. Children. Perhaps he was getting old, but it seemed that his boys became younger rather than older with the years. Oh, they grew taller, their voices changed, and they began to carry themselves like men, but they were still children in his eyes. Where had the years gone? Alone for a few precious moments, Shrewd walked the length of his chamber and looked at the various decorations and oddments he'd accumulated. Yes, he was an old man now, and he had no choice but to consider the future of his kingdom. Plans would need to be made. Shrewd decided that it was time he consulted Chade.

 

_     “I believe that Lady Patience truly tried her best to be a mother to Fitz. I also believe that she went about it all wrong. From the beginning, she seemed almost aggressive when it came to matters concerning him, and this certainly would have been intimidating. She was also very set in her ways; from what I observed it seemed she tried to parent Fitz as if she had already been doing so, and that he ought to have been accustomed to her quirks. She focused so much on the boy she thought he would have been had she raised him, that she completely missed the boy he really was. When she did come to value him as his own person, she was past the point of being able to influence him as a mother. I do not know if Fitz laments this, but I do. I wish he could have known a mother’s proper love.” _

_ … _

_     “Very rarely, if ever, had I known Prince Verity to anger, and he was always kind towards me. The one time I was ever at the mercy of his displeasure, though, was the one time he witnessed an argument between Regal and me. I think much can be said for a man’s values when he dislikes and distrusts his own brother, and yet stands up for him when he can.”   _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	17. On Commencement and Companionship - Caution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've stolen some dialogue from RH again; it pains me, but it had already been written before we resolved not to do so. Fortunately, there is not too much that we have not re-imagined.
> 
> Trigger warning: Homophobia

_The customs of a land dictate much of what is thought to be normal or natural, and seldom do people question those unspoken rules. Burrich hated his wit, not because it_ felt _wrong, but because he_ knew _it to be wrong. He hid his magic from the world, and he strongly encouraged both me and his own son, Swift, to do the same. It was not because he did not see the benefit of our magic, or understand the joys of it, but in part because he thought that it would shield us from harm. Protect us from being persecuted; from being hanged, quartered, and burned for possessing the magic that our culture viewed as evil._

_It is only when groups begin to speak out that the culture begins to shift and change. The Old Blood community has faced incredible risk to gain at least some acceptance in the Six Duchies, and it has not been easily won. In some places at least, a man can practice his magic without fear of being hanged. I am glad to have been able to see that change in my lifetime._

_Other beliefs have been slower to change. I suspect that there will always be some battle to be fought. Perhaps one day I will be able to hold my Beloved’s hand in the Six Duchies without fear, and he will be able to declare himself to be my husband and partner, not only my wife. Were we to do those things now, I fear that we would be met with disgust and ridicule, if not outright violence._

_Learning that I was_ wrong _in so many ways shaped much of my life. The one place that I could safely be my whole self was with the Fool. I regret that, for a long period of my life, I could not be that safe place for him._

 

    After hearing the discussion that had taken place in his brother's chambers, Chade had had much to consider. He had hoped that Fitz would have the good sense to avoid Lady Patience; it was bad enough that she had returned to remind all the nobles of the late Chivalry. They had just started to move past their anger at his abdication, and seeing his less-widely loved widow at court could not have improved their disposition. Shrewd had granted Fitz the right to learn the Skill, and while Chade was glad to see a bastard rise above the limitations usually set by the crown, he could not help but feel a stab of jealousy at the boy's good fortune. He supposed he would have to succeed through Fitz. As well, the princes had been as opposing in opinions as ever, and the presence of the Fool had not helped to quell the atmosphere. Chade still did not know why Shrewd allowed the boy such a long leash, and such leave to speak. The only reason he could think of would be the supposed gift of Prophecy the jester was supposed to have, and he hoped that his brother had not been swayed too hard by that declaration. Strife was bound to occur if a fool, and a child at that, was given as much consideration as a prince.

     Upon speaking with Shrewd after the conflict, Chade had requested that he be the one to share the news of the Skill with Fitz. It was this he intended to do tonight, and it made him feel younger than he had in years. Though they were not his, the prospects looked grand and wide, and there was a whole new life to be lived. He triggered the secret door and settled into his chair by the fire.

    Fitz had long been conditioned to rise at the draught that signalled the opening of the secret passageway, and his body too, had become accustomed to the interruption of sleep. It had been two months since he'd last been summoned by Chade, but those habits were not easily broken and Fitz found himself pleased at the prospect of seeing the old man again. He slid out of bed and made his way up the narrow stairway that led to Chade's secret chambers. The steps he knew by heart. When he emerged and saw Chade in his chair rather than at the stone work table, he approached to take his accustomed place at the man's feet. "Hello, Chade," he greeted.

    "Hello, FitzChivalry," Chade greeted, hoping to keep the excitement out of his voice. He did not want to alarm the boy, around whom he was not sure he had been outwardly happy. "As you know, Lady Patience has come to Buckkeep," he said without preamble, "and I thought you would have had the good sense to avoid her." The grumble with which he said these words was not false; aside from the Skill, he saw only trouble in Patience's visit.

    Fitz sat and fought the urge to scowl. That had not been the greeting he'd looked for after two months' absence from Chade’s chambers. His tone was a bit surly as he replied: "I hadn't known it was her at the time, sir, else I would have avoided putting myself in front of her. I'm surprised that there wasn't more gossip regarding her arrival."

    "Even if there had been, you would not have heard it," Chade informed him. "She strenuously objects to gossip." A chill went through him that had more to do with age than cold, and he frowned as he went on. "Besides, she has her own ways of dealing with those who talk about her behind her back. It is one reason she would have made a very poor queen, though Chivalry cared little of that."

    At the mention of his father, Fitz frowned a bit and did his best not to imagine anything about the man by what it meant for him to have taken such a woman as Lady Patience as his wife. Instead, he focused on Chade. The man looked weary, and his old hands were knobbled and thin. It was shocking, the rare times that he was reminded of Chade's age, and it made him feel oddly sorry for his mentor. Chade had never acted old, and to see the evidence of his age on his body felt wrong. If he kept silent, would Chade continue to speak? Fitz was not sure that he would want to hear the words. After having met the Lady Patience, Fitz could understand the people's opinion. "She was not very queenly, no..."

    Chade had been remembering the early days of courtship between Patience and Chivalry, and how much Chiv seemed to benefit from Patience's affections, but the boy’s words broke that. "Anyways, one good thing has come of her visit. She has gone to King Shrewd and demanded that you be given an education fit for a prince of the blood. She herself is to be your teacher in this while you act as a sort of page boy...although you are a bit old. Nevertheless, this means dance, musical instruments, fine arts, and of course Burrich will have to find a new stableboy." He looked down at the boy to see how he was taking this.

    Having jarred Chade out of his thoughts, Fitz felt a small amount of regret. He had no time to dwell on that, though. His eyebrows continued to rise as Chade spoke. "But, Chade!" he protested, and then his mouth moved uselessly. He was nearly speechless. An education fit for a prince of the blood? What would that mean for him? He cared little for politics or the formal events that Regal was so fond of. Dance, music, and arts had no place in his current life save for the glimpses of performers that he saw in the Great Hall and in town. What would that mean for his lessons with Chade? And Burrich...Fitz had mixed feelings about that. Burrich was sometimes a harsh man, and Fitz had no love for him...but he had been a constant fixture in Fitz's life for all the years he had been at Buckkeep, and that earned the man some small bit of something akin to affection. True, Fitz hated the man at times, but he had always been there and had even shown Fitz some kindness when the mood struck him. Fitz's expression was one of dismay.

    Chade held up a finger to halt Fitz's objections. "But most important of all is the Skill, my boy! You'll be learning the Skill, along with the others of noble blood." The way Chade phrased it made it sound reverent, despite the fact that it was simply Fitz's birthright being given back to him.

    Fitz gaped. "The Skill?" His mind was swirling. As had happened the day he had been given to Chade, too much change was happening too quickly. It was disorienting. "Wait. But, what happens now? With all of this...Am I still your apprentice?" That was the question of the most importance to him in that moment.

    "Of course you are," Chade answered as if it should have been obvious. "But you are allowed to rejoice in this, Fitz. The Skill is an ancient bloodright, the mark of the Farseer clan."

    "I'm not sure I want to learn," Fitz said, still too shocked to reply with anything but honesty. Burrich had once described it as the opposite to his Wit magic. Would one cancel out the other?

    Chade frowned. Not want to learn it? This boy had no idea how lucky he was. Chade would have switched places with him in an instant. "The Skill is the greatest honour that can be bestowed on a young mind. Why would you not want to learn it?"

    Fitz hesitated then. He could not be betray himself to Chade. If Chade also held the Wit to be a lower magic, then Fitz feared he would lose the old man's regard. "I...No reason, I suppose. It's just that this is all happening so quickly."

    Chade misinterpreted Fitz's hesitation. He patted the boy's head comfortingly. "I would not worry about not succeeding if I were you. Your father was highly gifted in the Skill; I see no reason why you would not be similarly endowed."

    Fitz's shoulders slumped. Just when his world had found some sort of balance, things were thrown into chaos again. "You were excited to hear I'd be given the training," Fitz observed. Chade had misinterpreted his hesitation, but he also raised a valid point. What if he did fail? What if his Wit magic meant that he would be unable to learn the Skill? If he had to choose between giving up one or the other, he knew he would choose to keep his Wit. "What will happen to me if I fail?"

    "As I said, you ought not to be worried about that," Chade reassured him. It was a valid question, however. "The other facets of your life remain the same, Fitz. Whether or not you succeed in the Skill, you are still my apprentice and a King's Man."

    Fitz was surprised at how relieved he'd felt to hear that, and he looked up at Chade gratefully. "I know that I said some months ago that I didn't want to learn from you any more, but I do, Chade."

    Chade nodded with a small smile, half pride and half something else. He was grateful to have the boy, but he knew the road would only get harder from here. "I must warn you of something, Fitz," he confided. "There are only two places in the castle in which I have no eyes, and the Queen's Garden, in which you will learn the Skill, is one of them."

    Though he was tempted to ask what the other was, Fitz knew he would be unlikely to receive an answer. "The Queen's Garden?" He knew the place to be located on a tower top. "Is that where I'll be trained?"

    "Yes," Chade answered. "The Skillmaster Galen has determined it to be the best place, closed off to all interruptions and barren of distractions." He paused, and saw an excellent opportunity to assess Fitz's skills. "What do you know of Galen?"

    "Not much," Fitz admitted, thinking about what he knew of the man. He was thin and sharp in a way that made him look greedy, and he had a waspish temper with the servants. He scolded them violently when he was displeased, and it was seldom justified. Someone who wanted power, then, or was self-conscious about his own standing. He looked disapproving of almost everything except for Regal. He was one of Regal's admirers, and Fitz had often seen him trailing along after the Prince. They almost looked alike, the way Galen would mimic his dress and manner of speech. There was also something in their appearances beyond mere dress, so possibly some relative. Fitz relayed his thoughts to Chade, organizing the facts and his conclusions into orderly groups for his mentor's approval.

    Chade nodded in approval. "Good, yes. What else do you know?" All knew those facts of Galen, but Chade wanted Fitz to push the limits. He wanted to know if the things spoken about Galen that not everyone could see or know.

    "Um, well...I've heard him called a queen's man before..." It had been a long time ago. As Fitz relayed the tale to Chade, the implications of it began to frighten him. By the end of his report, he looked up at Chade worriedly. "Which means that he favours Regal, even over Verity or King Shrewd. It explains the way he's always hanging around him, and Regal seems to favour him as well." Fitz had not forgotten his suspicions regarding his father's murder. The Queen was dead, but that did not mean that Regal might not have higher ambitions. He was fairly confident that the Queen had ordered the murder of his father. Chade had said that he was in danger during that time. Fitz was now about to be instructed, away from Chade's influence, by a man who supported Regal's right to the throne. "I'm in danger," Fitz concluded.

    "It's possible," Chade agreed, "but Galen was loyal enough to your father. He seemed to be incapable of hating him, though whether the result of Chivalry's natural charm or some higher authority we know not. I doubt he will harm you directly." This he said with more confidence than he felt. "What else?" he prompted one last time.

    Fitz felt some of the tension leave him at that, though the possibility was still there that the Skillmaster might blame him for Chivalry's abdication. 'But for the boy, he'd still be in line to be King,' the long-ago whispers had said. Fitz forced himself to push the notion aside. Not everyone was a danger to him, and he scolded himself for being paranoid before bringing his thoughts back to the matter of Galen. "They look alike," Fitz noted again. "Regal and Galen do...They could be related, but I find it hard to believe that a man so conscious of his status would not flaunt his royal blood. Especially if it is of such importance to him..."

    "There are many reasons for what people choose to do," Chade responded mysteriously. "All that should appear to matter to you is that Galen is the Skillmaster, and you will award him the devotion and respect you do your other masters. Of course, you know where your other responsibilities lie. Constant vigilance."

    "I'll be cautious," Fitz sighed. When had he ever not been cautious? His mind was drawn to the Fool, and his claims to foresight. Fitz suddenly wished that he were able to know what was to come. As comforting as it was to know that he would always be Chade's apprentice, the uncertainty surrounding all of the rest of the parts of his life was still troubling. His eyes were drawn to the scrying bowl tucked away on one of Chade's shelves. He wondered what Chade would think. "Chade," Fitz ventured cautiously. "Do you believe that it's possible for a man to divine the future?"

    "Oh, Eda's head, Fitz." Chade rolled his eyes as he regarded the boy. He had been afraid the Fool's friendship might lead to these fancies, although that had surely lost its novelty long ago. "King Shrewd believes it is, though he was somewhat aided in this opinion." He spoke dryly, almost disparagingly. "Why do you ask?"

    Fitz bit his lip at Chade's obvious disdain for the idea, but he forged ahead nevertheless. "I only wondered...The Fool talks to me sometimes, or he used to. He told me some things. Things that it almost seemed came true, though I was reluctant to believe it..."

    Chade raised an eyebrow. "The Fool still talks to you?" he asked in surprise. He still had not seen the two of them together, and he had thought one or the other would have lost interest by now.

    Fitz nodded slowly. "I think so. I hope so. We had a fight...I'm not sure if you could still call us friends." Fitz's pain at that was obvious in his tone. "But he still came to me to tell me something. It seemed like nonsense at the time, but then looking back, I could see that it came true in a fashion...I insulted him rather badly, though. I haven't spoken with him sense." He left out as many details as he could while still making sense. Burrich told him that he sounded like an idiot when he did that, but he felt awkward about sharing the full details.

    Chade pursed his lips. "Tell me of this 'foresight.' Long have I argued the potency of the Fool's powers with Shrewd." Usually, prophets' predictions were so open-ended that nearly any event could be interpreted as a fulfillment. "And tell me then why you have grown apart." If the Fool was trying to keep secrets, Chade would figure it out and report back to his brother.

    Fitz shifted awkwardly, and he felt the blood rising in his cheeks. He decided to answer the first question before anything else, and hope that it might distract Chade sufficiently. "He came to me in the gardens and said 'Fitz fixes a feist's fits; fat suffices.' I thought it was just babbling at the time, but then at Ripplekeep I ended up saving Lady Grace's dog, Feisty. With a bit of butter and a hook. Because of that I was able to convince her to give up her jewels to man the watchtowers, as I already mentioned...I hadn't been thinking of the Fool's words when I did it, so I know that I wasn't merely acting out something he'd told me to do. I didn't even realize that it might have been prophecy until much later."

    Chade's eyebrows lifted almost to his hairline. Those words had been quite specific, and only that particular turn of events could possibly have yielded that result. "Are you certain you did not even have an inkling of his words in the back of your mind?" He was reluctant to believe in any sort of prophecy.

    "I'm sure,” said Fitz, looking down at his knees. “I was angry at the Fool when he told them to me, and I put them out of my mind. Do you think that his Dreams are real?"

    "I am reluctant to believe such a thing," Chade said dismissively. "Why were you angry with him? You have not mentioned any quarrels with him before."

    Fitz winced. He could not lie to Chade, and even if he tried, he knew that Chade would see through it in an instant. He had been the one to teach Fitz the art of lying in the first place. "I..." Fitz sighed. "I thought that we'd gotten close and...I liked that. I told him that. He didn't feel the same way, and he put on a great act about how he cared but that his Dreams wouldn't allow it and then he told me it had all been a grand jest..." Fitz found himself frowning as he told the tale, reliving his humiliation. He avoided mention of the word love. "I didn't know what to think after that, and I was angry. If he truly cared, why would he refuse? Even if it were because of his Dreams, I told him that I would find a way around whatever frightened him so. And then he told me it had all been some jest..."

    Chade brought a hand up to stroke his chin, also covering his mouth so the boy would not see his faint amusement. To him it sounded as if they were both confused children, unsure of what they wanted. After that, it was no wonder they had grown apart. "I see."

    Fitz's cheeks burnt, and he felt like a petulant child when he complained: "We were friends before. Even if he hadn't wanted to be any more than that, he had no cause to humiliate me like that." Fitz glared down at the floor and then tried to bring himself back to the task at hand before he could embarrass himself in front of his mentor any more than he already had. "So, we haven't really been friends after that...I regret it. I called his Dreams nonsense, and that hurt him. I was wondering what you thought of them; whether you believe that a man can divine the future."

    Chade considered very carefully before answering. He did not want to wound the boy's spirit, but these matters had to be handled delicately. "As for the future, I do not know. But if you truly believe the Fool is going to grow up to be a _man_ that can do such a thing, it is only natural that he retreated behind jest when confronted with certain, possibly unwelcome, attentions from you."

    Fitz's brow furrowed. "But I don't understand, Chade! How can that be the natural reaction? It would have been as well if he'd punched me in the teeth. That, I think, would have been more welcome."

    "It is natural for a boy's defenses to go up when he is receiving too much interest from another boy.” Chade could not believe he had to explain this. “This simply is not how things are done."

    Fitz paused before another argument could pass his lips. It was not solid yet, but the idea that he had done something wrong beyond asking for more than he had a right to was beginning to form. "Isn't it?" He asked.

    "I cannot fault you, for no one has taught you what is proper. That sort of love is reserved for a man and his woman," Chade explained.

    His face heating, Fitz looked away from Chade then. Improper, then. He was acutely embarrassed, a bit ashamed, and he could hardly believe that he was discussing these matters with Chade. The Fool had said that he would not care if Fitz were a boy or a girl, but then that had been before his ill-conceived confession. It could also have been a jest. Fitz had no idea how far the joke extended. Realizing that he had done something _wrong_ awoke all of his embarrassment again, in a new light. He wondered how awkward Chade must feel, having to explain such things to him. He did not dare to quest out to him, though, for fear that he might find some revulsion there. Was this another thing like his Wit, that felt impossibly right but was somehow very wrong? Was it merely improper, or had he offended the Fool gravely? "Is that why the Fool has avoided me so strenuously?"

    "It's possible," Chade conceded. "If you truly wish to reconcile with him, an apology for that would be the first step." Chade wondered how much his brother knew of this particular development. Most likely not much, given the shame the Fool was no doubt feeling. The old assassin himself would have to speak with the King.

    Fitz was conflicted about this. It felt...strange to have to apologize for his affections. If he had truly made the Fool so uncomfortable as to avoid him, though, it would explain much. He was still a bit angry, but if it had been his own fault, was he really justified in that? And he had been cruel about the Dreams. "I'll apologize," Fitz said, still blushing darkly.

    Chade nodded. "Good. Now, you are going to need extra sleep to be able to master the Skill, and it was really only this I wished to tell you. You're dismissed." He patted Fitz's head.

    Fitz mustered an awkward smile for Chade and rose. "Good night, Chade."

 

_“Sometimes I wonder how much of Chade’s disdain for the relationship between myself and Fitz stemmed from his dislike and distrust of me. He believed me at one point to be deluding his brother, and he viewed me as a victim of a rare disorder causing prophetic hallucinations. He did not want me taking Fitz away from him as I had supposedly taken Shrewd. Chade was one who always believed I had ulterior motives behind my kindnesses._

_“Or perhaps I simply cannot fathom that any person would so vehemently disapprove of love, no matter the form it took.”_

_\--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet_


	18. On Commencement and Companionship - Secrecy

_ The Fool will sometimes smilingly remind me of my stubbornness. I am his Catalyst, and I am given to understand that it was not always an easy task to nudge or even shove me onto a given path. Ofttimes he would give me some warning of events to come, or some urging to do a task, and I would bullishly ignore his words.  _

 

    Fitz adored Smithy. The little pup was energetic, curious, and he had made Fitz the centre of his tiny little world. It was an enormous responsibility, and Fitz was touched to have been entrusted with it. That new bond soothed something that had been raw and painful inside of him, and Fitz didn't think that he could ever thank Patience enough for gifting him with the pup, even if she could not have known how much he meant to him. Fitz kept a thread of his awareness always with Smithy, so that he would not feel too alone while Fitz was out about his tasks. After the initial difficulty that caused with focusing, Fitz found that it became second nature. He could feel Smithy's eagerness to explore all of the things that Fitz could see, smell, and hear, and Fitz felt sorry that he kept him mostly in his rooms, so one day he decided to smuggle Smithy outdoors. He did not fear him running off thanks to their bond, but he did fear Burrich stumbling across them or somehow sensing what they did, so he found them a spot out of the way from the stables nearer to the gardens. Smithy was snuffling the grass and making leaps at insects, and Fitz felt joy at his curiosity and enthusiasm.

    For once, the Fool was not looking for Fitz when he found him. While it was true that he had been gifted with further Prophecies recently, he had learned not to mention them to his Catalyst. If they were to come true anyways, what was the point of repeating them to someone who only held them in disdain. On his way out to the gardens, the Fool passed Burrich, who looked five shades of angry. He tipped his hat at him, but the only response he received was a grunt and an inquiry as to where Fitz was. It was with some caution that he answered that he did not know, but Burrich moved on after that. As the Fool moved among the flowers, he suddenly felt a lightness in his heart that was not his own, and focusing on it discovered that it was his Catalyst bleeding through to him again. The sensation drew him and he ended up approaching Fitz, who was tussling with his puppy in the grass. The Fool cleared his throat conspicuously.

    Fitz startled and looked up, wide-eyed as he guiltily left off playing with Smithy. He relaxed when he saw that it was only the Fool. "Oh, it's you, Fool. You startled me." He looked back down at Smithy and gave his tail a small tug that sent the pup whirling around to growl playfully at his hand. 

    "Hasn't he grown?” Fitz asked, looking back at the Fool. “He'll be strong when he grows up, and smart." He sounded a bit like a doting parent, and he blushed. Things were still awkward between them, and he'd forgotten that for a moment in his happiness.

    "He sounds like someone else I know," the Fool acknowledged. "I imagine he'll be a good-looking specimen too." With a look over his shoulder, he added: "Burrich will be pleased to be able to find you here." The tone that accompanied the words was almost challenging.

    Fitz tensed again. "Burrich is coming? But he should be busy in the stables..." He looked from the Fool, down to Smithy. If he scooped the pup up and ran, be might be able to make it back indoors. That was the direction the stables were in, though, and if Burrich were on his way, there was a chance that they would cross paths. Should he retreat into the gardens?

    "What you really need is a hiding place  _ within _ the Gardens," the Fool answered the unspoken thought. "Though the Keep is rather short on people who know of those..." He grinned.

    "Show me, please?" Fitz asked. He was unwilling to hesitate and risk Smithy because of their quarrel, no matter how awkward things might be between them. "Burrich can't know about Smithy. He'd... It wouldn't be good."

    "Because you're using magic," the Fool concluded, turning on his heel and walking further into the Gardens. It Fitz followed him, that would be just as well. He led them to a small shed by the wall, nearly overgrown and half collapsed. One of the boards in the side was loose, and when he swung it aside it left a gap wide enough for a child to get through, barely.

    Fitz looked at the opening skeptically. He’d grown recently, and he wasn’t sure that he would be able to fit through. Fear of Burrich’s wrath gave him the motivation to try, though, and he urged Smithy into the shed before following himself. He snagged his tunic on the wood, and earned a few scrapes, but he made it. The interior of the shed was dark and cramped, filled with old tools, and smelled strongly of dust. Fitz wrinkled his nose, hoping that he wouldn’t sneeze, and maneuvered himself out of the way so that the Fool could enter and sit. 

    The Fool made it through the opening with less difficulty, but having to maneuver around the various dusty tools put him very close to Fitz as he sa down. Their knees touched, but the Fool tried not to think about that.

    Smithy sniffed around the shed, happy enough to be exploring somewhere new. Fitz reminded him to be quiet while they hid. "Thank you," Fitz whispered to the Fool. "You could have refused to help me, but you didn't. I'm grateful."

    "I could have," the Fool agreed, "but that would be a poor way to treat a friend, and I would not want harm to befall Smithy." Knowing what he did about how Burrich had handled Nosy, he was adamant that the stablemaster not get his hands on any other companions Fitz might choose.

    "He's wonderful... I felt sorry for him, cooped up in my chambers all day, so I thought that I would take him out. I should have taken him down to town to meet Molly, instead of hanging about here. I thought this would be safer, but Burrich always seems to know when I'm using my Wit. I don't know how he does it." Fitz’s tone was bitter.

    "Was a time when you would not even have thought of showing new facets of your life to Molly," the Fool remarked. His whisper hid the bluntness of his words that a voice aloud would have betrayed.

    Fitz thinned his lips and glanced down at Smithy. "That's different. Smithy is good, and sweet, and she'll like him. She knew Nosey, so I know she doesn't mind dogs. Besides, I think we've grown rather close. It would be stranger if I didn't introduce them." The last, Fitz added pointedly. The Fool had wanted he and Molly to fall in love, that Fitz knew plainly. He knew why now, too. Such things were meant to be between a man and a woman, not between two boys. Would the Fool be pleased that Fitz had taken his advice? He suddenly felt very awkward, stuck in such a small dark place with the Fool. They hadn't been this close to one another in a long time, and their legs bumped together no matter how they positioned themselves.

    "Strange indeed," the Fool agreed with an unidentifiable twist to his words. "For it is true that when two people grow so close as the two of you have, they share much more than pleasantries." He winked, but the Prophecy about Molly rose to his mind, from the night he had first dreamt it. He could not tell Fitz plainly that Molly would break his heart, but he could let him know that she was not to be the only one in his life. Let him mull over that as he will. Pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his cheek on them, he whispered: "Twice confirmed shall the Catalyst love/With heart in affection replete/But laments in vain to Eda above/That neither man nor woman shall fully complete."

    Fitz squinted in confusion at the Fool. Had that been another prophecy of his? Fitz could make neither heads nor tails of it. It did remind him of what he'd meant to do, though. "I'm sorry, Fool," he said sincerely.

    The Fool looked up in surprise. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom and he could see the sincerity on Fitz's face. "What?"

    Fitz worried his lip and looked away briefly, before forcing himself to meet the Fool's eyes. "I'm sorry that I spoke harshly about your Dreams. Truthfully, I have difficulty wrapping my mind around how such prophecy works. I should not have insulted you, though, and I'm very sorry. I also think that I understand now why you reacted the way you did to my... unwelcome attentions toward you," he borrowed Chade's words. "I apologize for that too, wholeheartedly. I was angry with you afterward, which was why I spoke so harshly to you about your Dreams, but I was wrong to be. I know that I was wrong now, so..." He trailed off. So, what? So could they be friends again? So would the Fool stop fearing that Fitz would make amorous advances toward him? So could they forget it had happened? Fitz wasn't sure.

    The Fool bit his lip and looked at his feet. So, it was done. Fitz knew now that such affections between boys was regarded as improper. The Fool did not know who had enlightened him to such, but it seemed to be a general prejudice in the Duchies. He imagined it would have been even more difficult for him to explain to Fitz that he was not really a boy at all, nor a girl. He sighed. "I accept your apology," he said heavily, referring to that about the Dreams. The other he chose not to address, tucking it away somewhere within his heart he hoped he would never have to look.

    Relief was evident in Fitz’s gaze, then his expression turned rueful. "Thank you... You've forgiven me more times than I can count now, Fool. I did not intend to... disgust you, or alarm you. I would never have willingly damaged our friendship so."

    "You did not disgust me," said the Fool. "There is a difference between declining something and being offended by it. If you had disgusted me, you would have known." That was the most he could say without betraying himself and undoing his work.

    Fitz gave the Fool a grateful smile in the dimness. His own sight was keen in the darkness, and he was not troubled at all by it. There was plenty of light to see by, where it shone in through the cracks in the wooden walls and the gaps between the boards. "I'm glad of that, Fool. Really. Your friendship has always meant much to me."

    "And yours to me," the Fool replied, subdued. He wondered how long they would have to spend in the tiny shed, and how long he could hold out against moving into closer contact with his friend. But no. All chance of that was gone now.

    "So... Are we, then? Still friends, I mean." Fitz asked cautiously.

    "Of course we are." The Fool looked up at Fitz with a frown. "I promised you we always would be."

    Fitz gave the Fool a half-smile. "You did... But I haven't been a good friend to you lately, have I? We've hardly spoken, and when we did, I snapped at you." 

    "If the waters were always smooth, everyone would be a sailor," said the Fool. "I welcome the challenge of your companionship."

    Fitz snorted. So, he was a challenge was he? Yes, that was fair... "Your friendship has always been easy," Fitz said, and then he realized that he could have strayed too close to dangerous grounds. "I mean, you're a good friend," he clarified, stressing the last word just a bit.

    The Fool winced. Fitz had driven the point home perhaps a little too hard. "I do try," he said softly. "Thank you."

    Fitz misinterpreted the expression and blushed. He would have to be careful with how much affection he gave voice to. "You're welcome," he said almost gruffly, and then looked around the small shed. The place smelled very strongly of dust and soil. "How did you come to find this place?"

    "By accident," the Fool explained. "I was following one of the rabbits and it slipped around behind the shed. I leaned against it to peer around the corner and the panel slid loose. I did not think it would come to further use for me, but I suppose everything happens for a reason. If I had not found it, you no doubt would have received a stern cuff by now."

    "I probably would have," Fitz admitted. "I couldn't stand to leave Smithy cooped up all day, though. I won't be able to spend much time with him soon enough, and I doubt I'll have any other chances to sneak him outside. I wanted him to be able to play in the grass and explore a bit. He's very curious about everything. He sniffs me all over whenever I come back from somewhere."

    "I can take him," the Fool volunteered. "I am always out and about, and I have had stranger things than a puppy dog my heels." He pondered the wisdom of this offer, but did not rescind it.

    Fitz raised his eyebrows. Their friendship hadn't been long repaired, and the Fool was already offering a favour. "Are you sure?"

    "Well," he said, "not for long each day. Just enough so that he does not act out in response to feeling neglected. I can feed him then, but if he makes a mess in your chambers, you shall be the one to clean it."

    Fitz smiled gratefully. "I wouldn't ask you to do that. Thank you. It really would be a relief if you would feed him and maybe play with him a bit if you've got the time."

    For the first time since their quarrel, a genuine giggle escaped him. "That is my occupation, is it not? To be playful with those who inhabit the Keep?"

    "I suppose it is," Fitz said, his smile widening. It had been a long time since he'd heard the Fool laugh. He quested out to Smithy, and the pup came over, abandoning his exploration of one of the corners of the shed. Fitz picked him up and held him over to the Fool.  _ Go on, say hello. _ Fitz urged. 

    Smithy snuffed the air.  _ There's no scent! _

    Fitz smiled a little.  _ No, he hasn't got a scent, but he's safe and good. He's going to play with you some times when I can't. _

    Smithy wriggled a little.  _ Play! _ He was enthused at the prospect.

    The Fool figured Fitz was talking to the puppy, from the way his facial expressions were changing. "Hello," he said, accepting Smithy from Fitz's grasp. He brought him up to eye level. "Pleased to meet you, good sir," he growled good-naturedly in what he imagined was a puppyish tone

    Smithy yipped and tried to lick the Fool's nose. Fitz laughed. "He's wondering if you taste like anything, since you don't have a scent," Fitz informed him.

    "I don't have a scent?" the Fool wondered aloud, scrunching his nose when Smithy licked it. He had known the White blood gave him some unconventional characteristics, but he had been unaware of that one.

    Fitz was a bit surprised that the Fool hadn't known, and then was surprised at himself for feeling surprised. "You don't," Fitz confirmed. "I can't reach you with my Wit, either."

    "You told me that before," the Fool recalled, tapping Smithy's nose with his own. "But I thought everything had a scent."

    "So did I until I met you," Fitz said. He determinedly did not wonder if the Fool had a taste. "That'll be good news if you've got to hide from any predators, I suppose."

    The Fool looked down at his bright attire. "Why yes...I do believe I blend with any and all surroundings I encounter," he quipped.

    Fitz flushed "Ah, other than that, I mean... The bells might give you away." Smithy was happily exploring the Fool, with wagging tail and searching nose. He went up on his hind legs, and licked the Fool's face again, his tiny paws braced on the Fool's collar bone. "I think he likes you," Fitz commented.

    "Takes after his master, does he?" the Fool teased. "I doubt the bells would be a problem. After all, I have snuck up on you."

    "You have," Fitz agreed, ignoring the first jab. The jest was a bit too soon for him to be completely comfortable with it. "I don't know how you do it."

    "Magic," said the Fool without missing a beat. He had been using that answer quite a bit lately, to respond to any ridiculous 'how' questions he had been posed.

    Fitz wouldn't have been surprised if that were true. "Have you been well lately? I heard that Regal was displeased with you for something several weeks ago."

    The Fool laughed. "Regal is always displeased with me. I think a more interesting piece of gossip was that Verity was displeased with me."

    "He was?" This was news to Fitz, but then Verity had never been as vocal about his displeasure as Regal. "Why?" 

    The Fool fell silent at this, unsure as to how much should be shared with Fitz. "I distracted Regal from a serious conversation concerning the OutIslanders." There. That was safe.

    Fitz frowned. "It's hard to imagine him being serious about anything. I don't think you would have ruined anything."

    "Well...suffice it to say that I yelled at him. And insulted his honour." Regal had very little honour to insult. "And in turn he grew angry with me, and the King would do nothing so Prince Verity had to step in. He was quite tired, and perhaps I was being less than fair."

    Fitz snorted. "I would have liked to see that argument though. Good for you for yelling at him. Regal's nose is too far in the air for anybody's good."

    The Fool regarded Fitz gratefully. He was glad to have someone on his side against Regal again. "Thank you."

    Fitz smiled at the Fool, remembering a long ago face the Fool had made to mock Regal right in front of him. "Nothing to thank me for. Don't worry too much about Verity, either. He's kind, and I'm sure he would have been amused if the circumstances had been different."

    "Most likely," the Fool conceded. He had seen Verity hide a smile in his napkin at dinner when the Fool had directed his mockeries towards Regal. He absently stroked Smithy as he tried to listen outside. "Burrich has no doubt given up."

    Fitz didn't dare to quest out to see if he could feel Burrich's presence. Such actions had always earned him a cuff on the ear, and he was sure that Burrich could somehow sense him doing it. He didn't want to reveal their hiding spot. "Probably," Fitz agreed. "If he has anything to scold me for, he can do it tomorrow. At least Smithy will be back in my room then. Burrich's going to need to find himself a new stable boy soon, so if I can manage to keep Smithy a secret until then, I think we'll be fine."

    "A new stable boy?" The stables needed Fitz as much as the kingdom needed Verity. "But why? Are you in trouble?"

    He'd forgotten that the Fool didn't know. Fitz 's brow furrowed. "I won't have time, so he's got to replace me. I'm to be trained in the Skill soon, and that will take up the majority of my time. That's why I needed your help with Smithy too."

    "The Skill..." He had known, having been in the room when Patience made her demand, but the thought of Fitz leaving the stables was so absurd to him that he had never considered it. "That cannot take up all of your time?"

    "Apparently it can," Fitz said. "Skillmaster Galen has made some very strict demands about it. I don't think that he's pleased to be training up any students at all."

    The Fool's expression dropped. "Galen. Oh no. No, Fitz, you cannot learn from him." His hands had stopped moving over Smithy's back, and the puppy's whimpers did little to move him.

     Fitz frowned, his own concern mirroring Smithy's. "Do you know him?"

    "As I have told you before, Fitz, I know everyone in the Keep," the Fool whispered fearfully. "Galen is worse than Regal; he takes more extreme measures than the occasional slap."

    Fitz s frown deepened. "He hurt you? I thought that you were under the King's protection."

    "He throws things," the Fool explained. "Whatever is at hand. Once, it was a lit candelabra." He shuddered at the thought. "I could only imagine if I was even a bit slower."

    Fitz's expression turned to shock, and then outrage. "How could he? He struck me as a miserable sort of a man, and I know that he's rude to the servants, but I hadn't expected that." Fitz wasn't sure that he could learn from a man who would attack his closest friend.

    "Expect far worse, FitzChivalry," the Fool warned gravely. "For while Regal throws words about my worthlessness at me, Galen acts on those words. To him I am worse than a rat in the soup. I would advise against ever meeting him."

    Fitz shook his head. "But, he's to be my instructor. He's the Skillmaster. I've no other choice." His concern was rising, for the Fool but also for himself. Chade had assured him that Galen had loved his father, but would that extend to the bastard who'd caused him to lose the throne?

    Impulsively, the Fool reached forward to grab Fitz's hands, jostling Smithy. "Please, Fitz. If for no other reason than to stay alive: avoid him at all costs."

    Smithy whined and then began tugging at the Fool's sleeve with his teeth, thinking it a game. Fitz blinked down at their joined hands, and he fought his natural inclination to tighten his grip. "I understand that you dislike him, Fool, I would too. I  _ do _ for the way he's treated you. I cannot avoid my training, though."

    The Fool looked aside with a sigh. He removed his hands from Fitz's grip and gave Smithy the attention he requested. "If I Dream anything about him, I will let you know," he mumbled. "I cannot help but fear for you."

    "Thank you, Fool," Fitz said sincerely. "I'm honestly a bit nervous myself. What if I've no aptitude for it?"

    "Nonsense," the Fool scoffed. "You're a Farseer."

    "A bastard Farseer," Fitz pointed out. "Thank you, though, Fool. I'll do my best to be careful Galen... Even if I would rather punch him in the nose for treating you like that."

    The Fool shook his head solemnly. "I fear it would be the last thing you ever did."

    Fitz gave the Fool a smile. "It would feel good, though. Have you told King Shrewd of what Galen's done to you?"

    "I have hinted at it, and he has picked up on the thread," said the Fool evasively. "He can stop Galen no more than he can stop Regal."

    Fitz sighed. "The King's Protection doesn't do much good, does it? I'm sorry, Fool. It isn't fair for him to treat you that way."

    "He accords me far more consideration than he does any other servant," the Fool felt compelled to point out. "I consider myself fortunate in that regard."

    Smithy worked his way around the Fool to nose around the various tools, and in his eagerness knocked over the rake and a few scraps of wood. Fitz saw the accident coming, and he rose up on his knees to reach out and catch them before they could harm anyone. "Sorry," Fitz said, shifting so that he could rise fully and prop the things back up. His position had brought them into awkward closeness. "You're alright? Maybe we should get out of this shed now."

    The Fool tried not to let his increased heartbeat to show on his face. "That would be for the best," he mumbled, fumbling on the wall behind him for the loose board.

    "I think so too," Fitz agreed, coaxing Smithy away from his investigations. "If we hide in here again, we should really clean it up..."

    "I should hope we won't have to," the Fool replied, wincing as the light spilled in from outside. He wriggled through the hole and held the opening for Fitz and Smithy.

    Smithy darted out first, and circled around the Fool's feet. Fitz squeezed out afterward. "I might not be able to before long. Won't be able to fit inside." He stretched and then looked around. "No sign of Burrich."

    "Curse those broad shoulders!" the Fool exclaimed with far more jest in his tone than he meant. He replaced the board and dusted himself off.

    Fitz rolled his shoulders and grinned. "It's all that stable work and weapons' practice. Mistress Hasty says I'll be tall as well." He blinked as he was once again made conscious of their relative heights.

    "Will be?" the Fool teased. He had recently started to have to look up at Fitz, and for a moment lamented the fact that his friend would mature while he would not. He quickly dismissed the notion; it did not particularly matter how either of them looked.

    "I suppose that I've grown," Fitz said, a bit self consciously. He didn't mind, but for some reason the difference in their heights made him blush a bit. That wasn't a thing to think about, though. "Um. Thank you again for your help."

    "You're welcome," the Fool chimed. "And now, FitzChivalry, I believe we both have duties to attend."

    "Yes," Fitz replied, awkwardly. "You're welcome to come by my chambers any time, to play with Smithy."

    "Not for any other reason, though," the Fool retorted over his shoulder. He smiled as he walked away, but as soon as he had turned to face forward once more, a grave and pensive expression flooded his face.

    Fitz sighed. The Fool was the Fool. Some things would never change. Chade's advice had been good, and Fitz was happy that his apology had been accepted. The Fool forgave him for his inappropriate advances, and had even forgiven him for his insult to his Dreams. Fitz felt grateful that the Fool was so understanding, but guilty that he had required forgiveness in the first place. He wasn't sure how many hurts their friendship could take. Every time, he worried that it would be broken beyond repair. He frowned to himself as he watched the Fool walk away. He had clearly not rid himself of all of his unnatural thoughts, but he would have to do better at ignoring them. They were friends, Fitz thought, and he had experienced very little affection in his life. Of course he'd become confused. Fitz sighed and looked down at Smithy. He had no desire to risk Burrich actually finding them.  _ Home? _ He quested out, and the two of them made their way back to the keep.

 

_     “The Skill is a dangerous magic, but I honestly cannot decide whether our lives would have been worse or better without its presence. On the one hand, Fitz would not have encountered so many grievances by Galen’s hands, nor would he have been dragged by Chade back into the Buckkeep politics he so despised. On the other, he would have had no means by which to find Verity, and thus the Duchies dragons would have been much less likely to be woken. I retain faith that he still would have been found, however, if only for the reason that Fitz would not have had to endure so much suffering that way. When I advised him not to learn, I did so because I wholeheartedly believed it was going to be the death of him. I was not correct, but nor was I entirely wrong.” _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	19. On Commencement and Companionship - Observation

_For a long time I was reluctant to hear any tales of my father or put any weight to comments made about how much I looked like him, or how I had his knack for diplomacy. He had chosen to have nothing to do with me, and hearing how like him I was would irritate me. At the same time, I was curious in the way any boy would be curious. In spending time with Patience, I came to learn a good deal of small things about my father. The largest of those things was that Chivalry Farseer had been the sort of man to love a woman like Patience, and love her enough to defy King Shrewd to court her. More than eyes, build, political skills, or height, I think that similarity of ours was what pleased me the most and I accepted it without any of my usual annoyance._

_Patience was an eccentric woman with a wider range of interests than any other person I’ve known. She was also kind, just, stubborn, straightforward, and intelligent. Many have questioned whether she would have made a good queen. I personally believe that she proved quite good at it in the time she presided over court at Buckkeep during the war. What no-one can question is that she was what my father needed. I have no knowledge of the circumstances in which he and my mother parted ways. I wonder if my mother was similar to Patience. Those memories are forever lost to me, so I suppose I will never know._

 

    Lessons with Patience were a trying, difficult, and frustrating thing. No sooner had Fitz begun to think that he might be able to manage a few notes on an instrument, or recall the steps of a dance, than she declared him hopeless and began him anew on some other thing. The only lesson he thought that he acquitted himself well at was recitation, because Chade had trained his mind to remember things well and in the proper order. Unfortunately, it was Patience who had difficulty keeping the lines straight, and so she was convinced that he was mocking her when he said back to her the lines she had taught him. It was exhausting for them both.

    Fitz was not sure what to make of his father's wife, other than that she was remarkably eccentric. He found that he could not resent her, but neither could be build any feelings of closeness with her. They seemed to have settled into an awkward formality, though, and Fitz found himself wondering if the Lady Patience had been this strange when his father courted her. He even considered asking Verity about it one day, but Verity would surely be occupied with more important things and so he didn't. He did not ask Patience about his father either. It was a topic that neither felt comfortable with, though Patience did sometimes ask very personal questions. They spoke of the lessons at hand, for the most part.

    One hot and humid day in summer found them in the Women's Gardens with mud on their hands and clothes, and a variety of sad looking plants strewn around them. Patience had been convinced that they had been planted in the wrong spot, and so ought to be moved. They did not seem happy to have had their roots disturbed, but Patience was sure they would be much happier in their new homes. Fitz kept a wary eye out for gardeners who might take it upon themselves to rescue the plants or scold them for having uprooted them. Fitz would not blame them. He doubted many of the plants would survive the shock.

    The boy really was a lovely thing, as far as Patience was concerned, it was just that he always got so distracted. Upon complaining to Lacey, Patience had been reminded that she too had a tendency to turn her attention towards other happenings as well. Patience had just scoffed and said it was different when Tom did it. She remembered that the King's fool had shouted a different name at her, but it was her word against his, and she thought Tom was a better name anyways.

    She looked over at him now and grimaced at the way his shoulders slumped. He was not enjoying the task of gardening any more than he had enjoyed music or verse or dance or any of the other arts she had tried to teach him. "Chin up, boy," she encouraged, though there was a sharper command beneath it too. "It cannot be so taxing to you as that."    

    Fitz hunched his shoulders and did his best to ignore the fact that there were bees coming to investigate the Bee Balm, while Patience was going on in that high pitched tone of hers that suggested she was displeased about something. He was doing his best, he really was, only she kept changing her mind about where the plants should go.

    "Lady Patience," Fitz ventured at last, swatting away a bee. "If we leave them out of the ground much longer, I suspect that they'll all die and all of this will have been for naught." He said it not unkindly, but bluntly.

    Lady Patience puffed air out of her cheeks as she considered the plants laying in patternless chaos around them. "I suppose you're right," she conceded. "Only we decided the way we wanted them, with the biggest ones in the middle and getting smaller to each side. Or else, perhaps we should also try to alternate between lights and darks.." In truth, she had decided both of those things without consulting Tom, but there was really no way she could be expected to remember everything she had ever said.

    Since repairing his friendship with Fitz, the Fool frequented the Gardens just as much as he had before. The whispers about his infernal provenance either died down completely or else were expanded to mention that he had grown in power enough that the sunlight no longer harmed him. He paid these rumours no mind. Presently, he sat in a patch of soft grass, surrounded by a spattering of wildflowers. The shrill cadence of Lady Patience's voice reached his ears and he perked up. Following the sound, he saw Fitz elbow deep in the dirt while Patience prattled on beside him. He stared: was Fitz aware of just how the wayward strands of hair escaped around his temples, or the sharpness of his profile in the sunlight? He was becoming more beautiful by the day, and the Fool sighed.

    Garetha had heard the small pocket of chaos and been quietly watching as plants were removed from their beds and gathered to rest in a disorganized array. Her dismay had grown and grown, but she didn't dare to confront the woman. She could only watch in horror as the casualties amassed. Her hands itched to help restore the poor things to the soil, and she worried them restlessly as she came to peer from behind a bush. She had been working in the gardens since childhood, and this was unprecedented. She was too young to know of the Lady Patience from personal experience, but she had heard the whispers. She crept a bit closer, trying to hear the boy's mumbled responses and then blinked when she noticed a great splash of colour and white amongst the wildflowers in her peripheral vision.

    "Oh," she whispered. It was the King's Fool. She watched him, her attention shifting from the carnage in the flowerbed. His performances were always expertly done, and it was rare to see him sitting so still. Usually, he was a flurry of motion, energy, and laughter. Now, he looked pensive, almost wistful. She wondered what he was thinking about to look so serious. She brushed a bit of hair from her face, and thoughtlessly smudged dirt over her cheek. She didn't dare confront the Lady Patience and her page boy, but if she were very daring, she could perhaps strike up a conversation with the Fool. Her heart raced at the thought. She'd never been brave enough to do so before.

    Despite his rapture, the Fool was still very much aware of his surroundings. He marked the garden girl in the side of his view, and her presence broke the reverence in which he had been holding Fitz. He spared her a quick glance, and when he looked back at his Catalyst he turned himself just slightly more so that she would be out of his field of view. It was subtle and would not be noticeable especially at a distance.

    Fitz held back a sigh, just barely, and looked down at the plants. If they were going to go with alternating light and dark, he would have to unearth some of the ones he had already done. He felt a stab of annoyance that she had not said something earlier, but it was soon gone. He was becoming used to Patience's ways. He wondered, while he moved over a flower, what it would have been like to have Lady Patience as a mother. He looked at her from the corner of his eye while he considered it. From what little he knew of his father, he found it hard to believe that they'd married for love. They were so different. Patience was energetic and impulsive, and though she was well versed in practical skills, when they were wed to her impractical imaginings, the result was sometimes disastrous. His father was supposed to have been a very reserved and practical man.

    Then Fitz's mind leaped to the Fool, and he found himself looking away to hide a blush. The Fool was very eccentric, too. Not in the way that Patience was, but he was certainly energetic, imaginative, and silly at times. Fitz liked that about him. As a friend, he reminded himself. The realization that he might have something in common with the father he'd never met felt very strange, and he began to put flowers into the dirt with a renewed effort and very little order.

    "Oh, what in Eda's name are you doing?" Patience demanded, seeing the boy start to pull up one of the flowers they had already anchored. She realized afterwards that he was trying to adhere to the pattern she had just dictated and grabbed his wrist to stop him. "Oh, never mind that," she tutted. "Keeping these alive is far more important. Just do it by size." She sighed. What was she to do with this boy? She had expected that they would think somewhat alike, but he never seemed to move on an idea until she had explained aloud to him the specifics of it. This would not have happened if he was a son of her blood, as well he should have been. Oh, if only.

    "Sorry," Fitz mumbled, ducking his head at the rebuke. He had gotten distracted by his own thoughts, and his expression was downcast. If Patience had been his mother, or had raised him, would they have done these sorts of things? He looked down at the flowers. It was nice, in a way. Even if Patience was frustrating and loud. He would not have blamed her if she had shunned him completely, seeing as he was her husband's bastard, but here she was trying to teach him things.

    He offered her a small smile. He did not know much of decorative flowers, but he knew something of those that could be useful. "Are you sure? These here are useful for headaches when brewed in a tea, and these for other aches and pains...These on the other hand, are better processed and used in inks and dyes. We could arrange them by function, and if we're quick, they might yet live."

    Patience never would have thought of that. She turned to rebuke him harshly for the outrageous suggestion, and then realized that this would make the plants much easier to find, especially in an emergency. Patience was not an organized person, and most likely if she arranged them by size the way she wanted, she would never be able to find what she was looking for. "Good, then. Reliefs from head to toe. Left to right. Come on, quickly now!" She started on the task before she had finished talking.

    Fitz found himself chuckling as he helped Patience to order the plants and get them back into the ground before they could wither. Perhaps he could learn to get along with Patience after all. Accustomed as he was to the Fool's oddities, really, he didn't know why he had been having such trouble getting used to her before. One thing still troubled him, though. "Lady Patience," he ventured, patting the soil down around the base of a plant. It was a bit wilty, but he hoped it would recover. "Why did you ask for me to be your page?”

    "Why?" Patience sat up straight, affronted by the question. "Well, why do you think, Tom? You are my lord husband's son, and I wanted to ensure that you were receiving an education befitting that." She fought hard to keep her voice from wavering and succeeded.

    Garetha watched the Fool closely. He was sitting so still that it was like looking at a statue. She wondered what he would do if she were to approach. He was always so kind to the children of the keep, turning his jokes on himself even when they teased him. It was awful the way some of the other children treated him. Would he be wary of her? But she had never been cruel to him. She had only ever watched him quietly while he performed. She doubted that he would remember her at all. What was he like when he was not performing? She was sure that he would not be an unkind person. Someone who took such pleasure in amusing others could not possibly be cruel of heart.

    Garetha gathered up her courage and abandoned her watch over the flowers to creep closer to the Fool. "Hello," she ventured quietly, when she was close enough to speak to him without raising her voice.

    The Fool had heard the girl's footsteps, but he had hoped that if he did not look at her she would continue on her way. Presently, he turned his head slowly to regard her. "Hello," he replied just as quietly. He forced himself to keep his eyes on her and not look at Fitz again; that would be rude. 

    Garetha blushed beneath her freckles and smudges of dirt, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious of how she must appear to him. "Hello," she said again, and then winced at it. "I haven't seen you in the Women's Gardens before," she tried again.

    There was perhaps a reason for that. If she had been around before he had had his disagreement with Fitz, then she would have seen him out here before. If not, then she was no doubt privy to the rumours about his demonic heritage and solar sensitivity. He cocked his head at her. "How old are you?"

    Garetha blinked at the odd question. "Thirteen," she answered honestly. She wondered if she looked older or younger than her age. "How old are you?"

    The Fool realized that he had asked the wrong question. "How long have you been at Buckkeep?" he asked instead. That would yield an answer he could work with.

    "A few years," Garetha replied, and then she held up a lock of her straw coloured hair. "I'm from Tilth originally. You can tell by my colouring. How long have you been at Buckkeep?"

    "Longer than you," the Fool replied with a grin. "There was a time when I was not quite as active in the Gardens as I am now, but if you think even further back in that pretty head of yours, you'll remember seeing me before." The compliment came naturally; people were more willing to listen to a fool if they were complimented--besides, the insults surprised them more then. He had no intention of insulting the girl, but he stuck to his habit.

    Fitz held up his soiled hands in a placating gesture. "I meant no offence," he said, feeling rather alarmed at Patience’s tone. He had not meant to upset her, though perhaps he could see how he'd managed it. "It's just that you arrived all of a sudden, and..." How could he possibly say that neither she nor Chivalry had shown any interest in him before? It was impossible to do it politely, and so he let the words hang.

    "I meant to come sooner," Patience admitted with a grumble, brushing some hair from her face with a dirt-stained hand. "It's just that it wasn't quite safe, what with your father having left and not being very popular at the time. He warned against either of us coming, curse his good sense!" Realizing that she had probably said too much, she shook her head and went back to her planting.

    Fitz realized that he had ventured into dangerous territory and was quiet for a moment, wondering if he should say more and risk her bursting into tears. Patience had meant to come sooner. Chivalry had cautioned her against it, because it was not safe. Fitz turned those ideas in his mind, and found that they were difficult to reconcile with his childhood hurt at being discarded.

    "He was probably right," Fitz said at last. "It wasn't safe. My presence here meant that his return would have revived all of the old scandal surrounding my birth. It was politically sensible for him to stay away."

    "Oh Tom no it wasn't you!" The words burst from her without pause before she could hold back a lie. She looked away from him then. "Get these flowers in the ground; I think this one's started to wilt." They had all started to wilt.

    Wondering if any of their victims would live, Fitz obligingly took up one of the flowers she had indicated and found it a home in the dirt. "Thank you," he said without looking at his father's wife. "I've heard that you don't much like Buckkeep, but you still came."

    "Oh, look at this one. It's standing quite nicely, now that it's back in the ground." Patience fiddled with the leaves of her latest flower. She did not care if Tom knew she was trying to change the subject, only that he went along with it.

    Fitz sighed, and did indeed go along with it. Once he might have taken her dismissal of the topic as rejection, but he thought he understood her discomfort. "That's because you've piled the dirt so high around it," Fitz pointed out.

    "Well, it's standing much better than yours," Patience felt obliged to point out, adding more dirt to the base of the boy's flowers. "See? That works much better." The flowers in her room were never this finicky.

    Garetha 's eyes widened and she blushed darkly. He thought that she was pretty. She had not dared think that he might, but he did. "Oh, I wouldn't have forgotten," she said quite honestly, and then her blush deepened even further. "I have always enjoyed your performances," Garetha complimented shyly. "You're very kind, even to the children who don't like you."

    The compliment was unexpected, and it warmed the Fool towards the garden girl a little. "I believe kindness to be very important," he replied by way of explanation. "And thank you." He searched his mind for a name to put to her face. "Garetha?" he asked. People came and went from Buckkeep often enough that there were always new names to learn, but the Fool was quick and retained words easily.

    Garetha gave a small gasp. He knew her name! "Yes," she confirmed. "Have you any name other than Fool that I should call you by?"

    The Fool shook his head, smiling a little bit. He needed no other name. "Simply the Fool," he informed her. He fiddled with his hands as an excuse to look away from her and flick a quick glance over to Fitz in the meantime.

    "Fool, then," Garetha bobbed her head. "May I join you?" She hardly dared to believe her luck. She smoothed her skirts self-consciously and wished that she'd given her hands a scrub so that they would not be quite so filthy.

    The Fool indicated the spot in the grass next to him with a wave of his hand. "I lament not bringing a blanket," he commented politely, "and having you sit your skirt directly in the grass."

    Garetha shook her head, making her hair scatter about her shoulders. She sat gratefully and smiled at the Fool. He was so considerate! "Oh, I'm up to my elbows in dirt every day. I'm not the sort who'd fuss over a seat on the grass," Garetha sought to reassure him. She glanced over at Lady Patience and her boy. "Were you watching them?"

    Naturally, the query turned his head towards Fitz once more, and the Fool felt an answering smile curve his lips. "Yes, I was," he replied, not deigning to explain further.

    Garetha nodded "So was I. I was quite alarmed to see all those poor flowers uprooted, but I daren't say a word about it... Do you like flowers, Fool?" She looked at him, though his eyes were turned away. They were the most pale shade of blue, she was reminded of a sunny winter day.

    "It is usually best not to contest Lady Patience," the Fool agreed. He looked at her following the question. "Very much so. I have them on display everywhere I can." Except for the table under the window, of course, but that she did not need to know.

    Very happy to hear that the Fool enjoyed flowers, Garetha blushed. Perhaps he might enjoy it if she brought him some the next time they met. She felt her heart race a bit at the idea of a next time. "Oh, I like flowers too! Very much!" She said eagerly. "Do you have a favourite kind?"

    "I love them all," the Fool said happily, "but I suppose I am more inclined towards the blue ones." Buckkeep blue specifically, which Fitz looked so good in.

    Fitz could not contain another sigh of exasperation as Patience began piling dirt all around the leaves of his flowers. He sat back to wait until she was finished and looked around the garden, hoping that there were no witnesses to the scene. Of course there were, but he blinked in surprise at seeing that they were the Fool and a tow-headed girl. They were smiling and looking into one another's eyes. Fitz stared in shock. They looked almost like lovers, but the Fool had never mentioned anyone like that before. Of course, they had not been on the best of terms, but Fitz still felt as though he should have known.

    "Alright now, I think a late lunch is in order," Patience decided as she finished. Not receiving an answer, she stopped admiring the flowers to look at her charge. "Tom!" she exclaimed. "Are you even listening to me?" She tried to look past him to see what had distracted him.

    Fitz could not respond to Patience right away, surprised as he was. The surprise gave way to hurt, but he pushed it down. It was because he had thought the Fool would tell him. Friends told one another about such significant things. He blinked and looked at Patience. "Oh, I'm sorry. I was distracted by my friend."

    "Who, the garden girl?" Patience asked. "I see you have none of your father's problems with over-propriety. He would not have even dared to speak with a girl alone, never mind look at her, if she were not an object of his courtship." She ended this statement with a snort.

    Fitz had heard that his father was very concerned with rules and manners, but to hear him spoken of in such a way from his wife was shocking. He stared at Patience with his eyebrows rose for a moment before shaking his head. "No, not the garden girl. The Fool."

    "There are so many lovely blue ones," Garetha smiled. "I know of a very fragrant one with very delicate little blossoms... It's the same colour as is on one of your motleys. Would...would you like it if I brought you some?" She ducked her head in embarrassment at her own boldness.

    The Fool saw nothing amiss with the statement, but perhaps that was because interest in the girl was simply inconceivable for him. "That would be wonderful," he replied, not having seen that particular plant before. "It must be well-hidden."

    Garetha could not contain a happy little grin that dimpled her cheeks. "I know where they grow best. I can show you if you like?"

    "Right now?" the Fool asked. He looked over at Fitz just in time to see him look away. He suddenly felt rather guilty, as even from this distance he could see his friend's shock and...was that pain? But he could not very well ignore his present company. "Yes, alright," he agreed.

    Garetha nodded and rose, happily bouncing to her feet. "We can collect a small pot from the shed on the way, so that you can take a few with you for your room. I do hope that you like them."

    The Fool rose in a lithe motion. He doubted it was the same shed in which he and Fitz had hidden, but the memory brought a smile to his face nonetheless. "I'm quite certain I will," he affirmed.

    "Oh." Now that she thought about it, she did remember the strange little creature in attendance when she had spoken with Shrewd--spoken _at_ Shrewd. "Oh yes. He did seem to be acquainted with you. I do believe he objected to something I said."

    Fitz’s brow furrowed slightly. “We’re friends,” he informed Patience. “We have been for almost as long as I’ve been here. I wasn’t aware that you’d met. He disagreed with you?”

    Patience made a grunt in the back of her throat. “He had the audacity to scold me! And for nothing less than calling you by a proper name. A good respectable name. You’d think ‘Tom,’ scorched his tongue by the way he spat it out.” 

    Fitz continued watching the Fool, even while he answered Patience. "Burrich always called me 'boy' or 'Fitz'..." He looked away and then added. "I thought that perhaps my father should name me, or the King, or him. I don't mind it if you call me Tom. At least it's a name that someone's given me."

    Well, hearing that Burrich called him Fitz, Patience was determined not to call him such. "Good, then," she said. "What I had said was that I think a late lunch is in order. Get up, Tom." The use of the name was meant to root it into his mind.

    Fitz bowed his head and rose to his feet, and then offered her his hand. "Lunch sounds like a fine idea, Lady Patience."

    Lady Patience graciously accepted Tom's hand and clambered to her feet. She was already talking his ear off as they walked back towards the Keep, the Fool out of her mind.

    Garetha turned to lead the Fool to the spot where the flowers grew, looking back to see if he would follow. "You can dry the petals and use them to scent your wash water, if you like," she informed him. They'd found a common interest in flowers, and that happened to be her area of expertise. Conversation came more easily to her when she could speak of things that she enjoyed, and she could hardly believe her luck.

    "That is probably a good idea," the Fool agreed, remembering Fitz's comment about his scentlessness. He knew not why, but it made him feel inferior in some way. "Thank you for the insight."

Garetha "It's this way," Garetha smiled, and then went off, following one of the narrower paths that were more frequented by the staff than the nobility.

    The Fool followed Garetha. He let the bells on his motley jingle, since she seemed the sort of person that would not get irritated with this. Besides, there was no need for her to know how silently he could move.

    Fitz glanced back once, to see the Fool and the garden girl walking away. Well, that was fine, he told himself, and determinedly tried to focus on Patience's chatter while they made their way back to the Keep.

 

_“As often as I tease Fitz about not recognizing my affection towards him, I was guilty of the same thing with Garetha. Love between us was so unfathomable for me that I did not recognize her attentions towards me until I saw a measure of my own within them. If I had not been so infatuated with Fitz, I may never have recognized the parallels. Then again, if I had not been so infatuated with Fitz, then perhaps I would have held a more open mind towards Garetha. I have thought for years about the apology I ought to give her for this, but no words have seemed enough to right such a thing. I can only hope that she found happiness and love in her lifetime; I would wish no less for her.”_

_\--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet_


	20. On Commencement and Companionship - Seapipes

   _The Fool has considerable talent in all of the arts that I have seen him turn his hand to. Most notable is his talent for wood carving which I first saw in the Mountains during the war, and was later augmented by the Skill upon his fingertips. His voice has always been faire, even when singing the most viciously mocking songs in Buckkeep’s halls. He can paint well, both on such things as beads and chests, and on himself if one counts his face paints as both the Fool and Lord Golden as art. He can also play several instruments. My favourite of them all is the seapipes._

 

    By the Fool's calculations, Fitz was now done his lessons for the day and would have at least an hour before the meagre dinner he was forced to eat with Galen. The Fool had gotten splashed by some wine when the noble he was entertaining had laughed hard enough to knock the pitcher off the table. Before he went anywhere he was determined to change, so he ran up the stairs to his chambers, followed by Smithy, who had been at his heels all day. He had had to grab the puppy once when he had seen Fitz and wanted to dash off towards him. Other than that, he was very well-behaved and the Fool thought Fitz would be happy to hear that. It took him nearly ten minutes to change, since there were so many clasps and hidden buttons in the clothes he had been wearing. He pulled on much simpler garb: a puffy sleeved shirt quartered with blue and red over top of a long sleeved one, which shared the same colours. Both his arms and his legs were striped vertically, and he had one shoe of each colour. Pulling on a matching hat, he removed Smithy from nosing through his flowers and closed up his room. The puppy raced him all the way to Fitz's chambers and ran right into the door with a dull thud, not having yet mastered sudden stops.

    Galen's harsh instruction encompassed so much of Fitz's life, that any time before it seemed to have a distant and dreamlike quality to his memory. His body, though, had not forgotten its longing for physical comforts. They'd been on the tower top all day, barefoot and shivering in the cold. He was tired, cold, and ravenously hungry by the time they were done, and he stung where Galen had struck him with his quirt. Fitz had been unforgivably distracted that day, but he had been unable to help it. Smithy's excited thoughts intruded into his mind periodically, and though Fitz did his best to ignore them, his lack of concentration must have showed in his poor performance. Fitz could only bow his head in shame to think that he was unable to master himself, or overcome his body's longings.

    Their meal that evening was thin porridge and vegetables that did nothing to satisfy his days long hunger. His spoon paused halfway to his lips when he felt Smithy's excited thoughts: _So many smells! An excellent den!_ With those thoughts came hazy images of flowers in little pots and the Fool's cast off motley, which Smithy immediately set to pawing at. At Galen's sharp glare, Fitz finished taking his bite of porridge and did his best not to look as surprised as he felt. He set his spoon down and excused himself, ignoring the suspicious looks of his classmates. They were forbidden such frivolous distractions as social conversation, but Fitz found he didn't care. He hoped that he would catch the Fool before he returned Smithy to his room.

    Since the door did not open at the noise, the Fool surmised that Fitz was not inside. He opened the door, which Fitz had left unlocked, to let the puppy inside. As he turned to go, however, he saw the other boy round the corner and was immediately concerned over how run-down he looked.

    Fitz trotted the last few steps to catch up with the Fool, pleased not to have missed him. Smithy was happily investigating their room to be sure that nothing had changed in his absence. "Fool!" he greeted, and then could not help but blurt: "Did you take Smithy into your chambers?"

    "Fi--" The Fool's greeting was cut off by his friend's query. "Only for a moment," he answered warily, not having much thought about it. "I had to change." He looked between the boy and the puppy. "Did he tell you just now?"

    Fitz blushed at his own rudeness. "Well, not exactly," Fitz began to explain. "He was excited and he liked it, so I just sort of knew..." It would have been far too awkward to mention the brief glimpses he'd had of the things Smithy'd been paying attention to. "Would you like to come inside? We haven't had a chance to talk properly in some time."

    "What conversation could a simple Fool offer a Prince of the blood?" the Fool asked, but he followed Fitz inside nonetheless. As he had always done, he made himself at home immediately and sat on Fitz's bed.

    Fitz frowned at the Fool, a bit hurt at the remark, but took a seat next to the other boy nevertheless. "Oh, just the sort a friend might offer, I suppose..." He'd thought that they'd repaired their quarrel that day in the shed. It seemed like so long ago now. Of course, the Fool might have other priorities if he were truly courting the garden girl. "You let Smithy into your rooms, but you won't let me?" Fitz grumbled. It sounded childish even to his own ears.

    "What?" the Fool looked at Fitz in surprise. "I could not leave him outside," he defended himself. "What if he had run off?"

    "That's true, but it's also still true that you haven't let me." Fitz scowled and was surprised by how much that small thing bothered him. "You didn't tell me that you were courting someone, either."

    The Fool gaped. "I left off courting you a long time ago!" he replied in astonishment. Garetha did not even come to mind; that had just been a friendly conversation.

    Fitz was shocked that the Fool would admit to having done such a thing. So that had been what the gifts, casual touches, and even occasional kiss had been about. He hadn't been crazy to have fallen for them... But then the Fool had rejected him, and that struck Fitz as incredibly cruel if the Fool had been deliberately courting him. Chade's words came to mind, about how such a thing between two men wasn't natural. Had the Fool realized that and changed his mind? Fitz wished that someone had told him sooner. "Yes," Fitz said, "I don't mean that you owe me any explanation. Only that I saw you with the garden girl some time ago, and as a friend, I thought you might have told me that you were courting her."

     A faint pink rose to the Fool's cheeks. Of course Fitz had been referring to Garetha: he could never think of such an action between two boys, not since someone had ruined him. "I'm not," he told Fitz rather awkwardly.

     "Oh," Fitz blinked. "You looked so close, I just assumed that you had been. Is she your friend, then?"

    "I suppose she must be," the Fool admitted. "Though that is far different from the friendship we share."

    Fitz supposed it would be. He doubted that their friendship could possibly be as complicated as his and the Fool's had become. Fitz felt unreasonably jealous. "I can imagine," he said, and then changed the subject. "Thank you for looking after Smithy for me. He enjoys seeing you, you know."

    "It must be because someone's been telling him good things about me," the Fool replied with a smile. "I saw you with Patience." The words came out suddenly. "Before I spoke with Garetha."

    "Yes," Fitz confirmed and smiled while he complained: "She somehow decided that it would be an excellent idea to uproot half of the flowers in one of the flower beds and move them over to another one. She then couldn't decide in what way she wanted them replanted, and so we spent an impossibly long time trying to figure it out. No sooner would she suggest something, than she would change her mind and insist that we start again..."

    "From what I have seen of her, she does seem like a frustrating individual," the Fool was forced to agree. "And worse, she wanted to call you Tom! I stopped her, though."

    That made Fitz grin, and it surprised him how disused those muscles had become. "You two are kind of similar, actually. No, really. It sort of helped me to get along with her once I realized that."

    The Fool took a moment to determine whether Fitz was jesting, and decided at length that he was not. "I suppose that's a compliment, then. Thank you. Besides menacing the local flora, what is it you and Lady Patience do?"

    "Oh, everything..." Fitz shook his head. "Or, nothing right now, while I learn the Skill, but we used to do a lot. She had me learning poetry, dance, art, herb-lore, singing, recitation... She tried me on several instruments, but gave up on me learning them before I'd really had a chance to try."

    "Perhaps she was teaching you wrong," the Fool suggested, feeling slighted that no one had asked him to instruct Fitz in several of his specialty areas.

    "Do you think you could show me?" Fitz asked. "Lacey brought me some sea pipes, but I haven't had a chance to practice with them. She seems to think that if I can show that I'm actually good at something, Patience'll be pleased." And he found that he did want to please her. It was an odd feeling, and he wondered when it had taken root. He was tired, and Galen would have skinned him if he knew what he was up to, but Fitz hadn't seen his friend in ages and he hoped that he would agree.

    "You're good at lots!" the Fool retorted with a frown, but he agreed. "Let me see the pipes," he said. "Better yet, let me see how you play them."

    Fitz rose to dig the pipes out from his clothing chest and then came back to sit on the bed with them in hand. Clumsily, he played a few notes.

    The Fool winced. "You're blowing too hard," he explained, gently catching at Fitz's wrist to bring the instrument away from his lips. "Your cheeks aren't supposed to puff out, and your teeth should not touch the instrument."

    "Well, I didn't know that…” Fitz mumbled, blushing. In embarrassment, rather than the hand on his wrist. "Do you want to show me how, or should I try it again?"

    The Fool folded his lips over his teeth to demonstrate, but he did not take the pipes. "You have to make sure only your lips touch the reeds, and you start each blow with a little 'tut' of air," he explained afterwards.

    Fitz frowned at the things and brought them to his lips again. Putting his lips in the way like that made it difficult to figure out how hard he should blow, and he struggled for a time to try to determine what a 'tut' was. When Sooty began to yip along with the odd sounds, Fitz gave up and gave the Fool a helpless look.

    "It's an improvement," the Fool encouraged him. "Would it be easier for you if I showed you?" He had discovered the hard way that telling someone how to do something and teaching them were two different things.

    "Please," Fitz agreed, wiping the pipes off on his sleeve before passing them to the other boy.

    "You also should not end up in such dire need of wiping them off," the Fool remarked as he accepted the instrument. He touched one of the reeds briefly. "Soak them in water before you play them, and they'll play much easier. Just the part you blow into, though." He proceeded, and even with dry reeds, it was easy to tell he knew what he was doing. He turned to the side so Fitz could see what he was doing with his lips and mark the movement of his throat when he tutted.

    Fitz found himself holding his breath while he watched and listened to the Fool's expert playing. He was impressed, and did his best to mark the way the Fool placed his lips and the puffs of his breath. When he remembered to breathe, he tried committing the melody to memory as well.

    The tune the Fool played was a simple one from his childhood, with a melody well balanced between long and short notes. When he had finished, he handed the pipes back to Fitz and subconsciously ran his tongue over his lips: playing dried them out.

    Fitz mirrored the action thoughtlessly, and took the pipes back. He swallowed. "That was beautiful," he complimented, lowly. He wasn't sure how much he would remember. The curve of the Fool's throat had been distracting, and even now he found it difficult to bring his gaze up from the Fool's lips. He would blame it on tiredness later- the exhaustion that Galen's training induced. Before his mind could rein him in, Fitz leaned forward to close the distance between them and captured the Fool's lips with his own. He did have a taste, Fitz discovered, and he was subtly sweet as honey. The pipes lay forgotten on the bedding, and he brought a hand up to cup the side of the Fool's face. His skin was as soft as his hair, and cool beneath Fitz's palm.

    The Fool let out a gasp of surprise, but this ended up as no more than a faint puff of air against Fitz's lips as they were pressed to his own. His eyes slid closed immediately, one hand going to rest on Fitz's shoulder and the other cupping the hand that was on his cheek. They had been in closer contact before, during Fitz's first night in the Keep, but the Fool found that this was the warmest he had ever been.

    Fitz felt his desire surge at the Fool's faint gasp, and when the Fool's hand settled on his, Fitz pressed closer, tilting his head to deepen their kiss. He knew faint surprise that he wasn't being pushed away, but that was overshadowed by the release of finally having what he'd wanted for so long. He drew back just long enough to look at the Fool, confirming that he was real, before he leaned in again. They were close enough for their breath to mingle, and the gentle friction when their lips brushed was like fire. Fitz parted his lips and kissed him again, hungrily. He put his other hand on the Fool's back to hold him there and to feel the solidity of him in his arms.

    The Fool had no experience in this area, but Fitz's confidence and apparent talent at it bolstered the Fool's own and he leaned forward, trying to get as close to the other boy as he could. His arm hung over Fitz's shoulder now, and his fingers just barely brushed his back. He was aware of the opening of Fitz's lips and belatedly parted his own

    They were pressed so closely together, that Fitz felt sure the Fool could feel the thundering of his heart in his chest. He tightened his grip, and slid his hand to cradle the back of the Fool's head, threading his fingers into his fine hair. The Fool felt small in his arms, and it made Fitz want to keep him there forever. Emboldened by the Fool's parting of his lips, Fitz tasted him again. Soft, cool sweetness. It was dizzying. He sucked gently on the Fool's lower lip, and slid his hand down the Fool's back, savouring the feeling of him and wanting more. He couldn't believe that this was happening. He pressed a soft kiss to the corner of the Fool's lips, and then another. He had so much to say, but feared that words would shatter the moment. Rather than with words, he sought to convey his love through touch. He released the Fool's head to find his hand and lace their fingers together in their old gesture. He never wanted to let go.

    The touch of Fitz's tongue against his lips caused the Fool's heart to nearly shoot out of his chest like an arrow. He felt a tingling in the pit of his stomach as the other boy took it one step further, but he had been so enrapt by the attentions that he had forgotten to breathe. He pulled away only slightly in order to intake air, dropping his forehead onto Fitz's shoulder as his chest heaved. He gave the hand that held his a squeeze.

    "Please, Fool," Fitz said. He put his hand into the Fool's hair again, and leaned closer. He did not kiss him, though; only pressed their brows together. His heart was racing, and he took a breath to try to calm himself. He wanted to touch the other boy, to feel what his skin was like in a hundred places. He wanted to kiss him again, and lose himself in it. He was also aware, though, that this was dangerous. His actions might not be welcome, and he was acutely aware of the evidence of his attraction. "I'll do whatever you say," Fitz promised, putting his words quietly into the scant space between them. He could feel the Fool's breath. "If you tell me that my- that my love for you is unwelcome, then so be it, but if you will have me, I promise to do what you ask without question. Just let us keep this. All else can be as your Dreams prescribe."

    The Fool laid his hands on both sides of Fitz's neck, his thumbs gently stroking the other boy's jaw. He had failed in his duties as Prophet, and was upset at his own apathy over the matter. He had read of generations of Prophets who put their own happiness before the Breaking, insisting that future Prophets could do it much better than them. The Fool was quickly in danger of becoming one such Prophet. Savouring the warmth between them, the Fool closed his eyes and prepared to pull away. He found he could not do it, though, and silent tears tracked down his cheeks.

    "You're crying again," Fitz observed with some alarm. It took the fire from his ardour, and he leaned back to wipe the Fool's tears away with a gentle thumb. His chest constricted. He'd upset the Fool again. Had it been because he'd pushed too far? He had been selfish and thoughtless. Hadn't they just repaired their friendship? Fitz cursed himself for his impulsivity, and frowned at the Fool worriedly. His tears said one thing, and his gentle hands another. It was confusing, and Fitz found himself at a loss. "I'm sorry," he said, feeling as though he held something fragile in his hands and that at any moment he might drop it. "Please tell me what to do."

    "I don't know," the Fool whispered. "It was all so clear, everything I had to do, I knew. But now..." he shook his head. "Amazing, how one tug of a thread can unravel an entire carpet. And terrifying." These last words were said almost to himself, but when he looked up again there was no trace of that fear in his eyes. He had decided that he would rather not talk about the Prophecy just now, and he leaned forward to kiss Fitz again, his wet cheek pressed against the other boy's warm one

    "I'm sorry," Fitz apologized again, because he felt that he had to and that he was responsible for the note of despair in the Fool's voice. He couldn't stand that he'd put it there. But the Fool was reciprocating, and though he seemed conflicted, he didn't seem at all disgusted. Fitz returned the kiss carefully and delicately, trying to soothe away the Fool's fears. The connection between them felt as breakable as thinly pulled glass. The Fool was right. It was terrifying. It was also everything he wanted, damn what anyone thought of it.

    "We can keep this," the Fool admitted at length, though the words were hard to form. "You can love me, but you have to love her too." It was the only way he could think to fix this. He had managed to convince Fitz before that it had all been a jest, but they had come too far for that now. His chest tightened at the thought of Fitz loving Molly too, but it was raw pain rather than jealousy. He could only hope Molly would still wield the same power of his heart as she would have if these events did not come to pass.

    Fitz felt the tension leave him at the Fool's words, but the immeasurable relief wasn't enough to dull his confusion. His brow furrowed and he studied the Fool's face. "You're not happy about that," he observed. "Is that truly something necessary? It doesn't seem fair to any of us... I promised to do what you say, and I will- I swear it- but are you sure?"

    "It is," the Fool confirmed. "Necessary, I mean. If it does not come to pass, all will have been for naught." He sighed, leaning into Fitz's shoulder wearily.

    Fitz was quiet for a time, thinking the Fool's words over. There didn't seem to be a good decision, if it was as the Fool said. Could he fall in love with Molly as deeply as he had with the Fool? Was it fair to the Fool for him to do so, even if the Fool had asked him to? Molly could never know about any of it. Could Fitz handle adding another secret to the mountain of secrets he was already keeping from her? Fitz shut his eyes and put his arms around the Fool. It was probably selfish of him, unwise, and improper... But it was preferable to the alternative, which was for things to continue on as awkwardly as they had been. "I love you," Fitz said, finally saying the words without a stammer. "If that's what needs to be done for us to have this, then... I'll do my best." His heart felt a bit heavy at that, but he leaned his head against the Fool's and knew he wouldn't trade that away.

    The Fool pressed his face into Fitz's shoulder, trying to stop a great sob from welling up inside him. Those were the only words he had wanted to hear from Fitz for years, and yet they somehow felt tainted when said under the circumstances. This was already a bad idea, but he could not stop it. "Fitz," the Fool whispered. "Would you kiss me one more time?" He had to leave soon, despite the fact that he never wanted to be separated from Fitz again.

    "I'll kiss you as many times as you like," Fitz promised, and this promise he made much more readily. He put his hands on the Fool's shoulders and guided him back, then leaned forward and pressed his lips to the Fool's. The salt of his tears marred his sweetness, and Fitz licked it away. He slid his hands down the Fool's arms and then put them around the boy's waist. He put as much love and devotion as he could into their kiss, and he hoped the Fool could feel it. He clutched the Fool to him as though he might disappear if he released his grip.

    The tension of his despair left the Fool's shoulders, and he relaxed in Fitz's arms. His own came up to the other boy's shoulders and he clasped his hands behind his neck, unable to keep from smiling a little even through the kiss. He parted his lips slightly, just as they had been before breaking off the first kiss.

    Fitz was more than pleased to pick up where they'd left off, and he took the invitation eagerly. Knowing that the Fool would not push him away helped him to cast aside his restraint, and Fitz explored the Fool's mouth hungrily. The feeling of their tongues sliding wetly together and the press of the other boy's lips made his heart quicken, and Fitz felt very warm. It was a thrilling contrast to the Fool's cool skin. Fitz's hands clenched in the Fool's motley. They were already so close, but he longed to be closer still. The air seemed to hum between them, and Fitz felt almost drunk with want.

    From such a bleak outlook to so much warmth and love all at once was a shocking transition, and yet as he pressed his tongue against Fitz's he felt almost as though a whole outer layer of his person was falling away, leaving him tumbling he knew not where. All he knew was that he was safe and he was in love, and his heart soared. He took the opportunity he had been waiting for for years and ran his fingers through Fitz's hair, thrilled with the thick black curls spilling over his hands. A small noise of satisfaction left the back of his throat.

    That noise sent a flood of arousal through Fitz's veins, and he gasped, unable to stop himself from pulling the Fool closer. His cheeks heated, and he kissed the Fool once more before drawing back, embarrassed by his own reaction. His hands trembled minutely as he gentled his grip on the Fool. "Sorry," He whispered. Curious as he was, he was too mortified to chance a glance downward to see if the Fool was experiencing a similar problem. That thought, though, only made his own situation worse.

    The Fool had much more control over his body than Fitz did. There was a fire in his lower stomach, but it did not progress past that point. It took him a moment to answer, disoriented by the sudden separation from Fitz. "Don't be sorry," he mumbled, his voice shaky and lower-pitched than usual. When Fitz had pulled him forward suddenly, the Fool had braced a hand against the other boy's chest. He relaxed that hand now, but he kept it right over Fitz's heart. His other hand was still tangled in Fitz's hair.

    "Oh. Alright..." Fitz still could not keep from blushing, and he licked his lips. They still tingled from their kiss, and his heart was racing. He leaned forward and pressed another kiss to the Fool's lips, more chaste than the last. He then grinned at the other boy. He was happy. Whatever dangers there were in what they did, they were a long way off. For now, he had the Fool in his arms and it was wonderful. "Thank you," Fitz said, trying to catch the Fool's gaze.

    Fitz should not have been thanking him. What they were doing was dangerous for both of them, and yet there was nothing he wanted more. "I love you," he said instead, the hand on his chest going up to cup Fitz's cheek as he looked into his eyes.

    Fitz 's breath caught, and he let it out in a rush. He'd needed to hear those words. "I love you too," Fitz said earnestly, and his smile widened. He'd missed the Fool.

    "And I always will," the Fool continued. "I have said it once, and I shall say it now. No matter what happens to you or me or us, I will _always_ love you. That's very important." He knew that Fitz would lose faith in him several times throughout their life, but he would never abandon the love he held for his Catalyst

    Fitz did not know quite what to say in the face of such a strong and heartfelt confession. The Fool's expression was earnest, and the words were perhaps the most direct he'd ever heard from him. Fitz raised a hand to take the Fool's in his and interlace their fingers. He didn't care if it were wrong, or improper. He cared not one bit for the danger and the complications that the future might bring, and all of the awkwardness of the past was washed away. That moment was all that mattered, and the love that was shining there in the Fool's eyes. What had he ever done to deserve such devotion? "I-" He began, but then startled when Smithy leaped up onto the bed, eager to play and tired of being ignored. Fitz laughed and met the Fool's eyes. "I'll always love you too, Fool." He reached over to scratch Smithy's ears.

    The Fool started when Smithy jumped onto the bed. He let go of Fitz's hand so that the other boy could give the puppy his full attention. "Curse humans and their passions, right Smithy?" he teased, tweaking the dog's tail. He then stood, though he let his hand hover on Fitz's shoulder. Despite the necessity, he did not want to leave.

    Fitz smiled as Smithy whirled around to mock-attack the Fool's hand, and then looked up as the Fool stood. It was late, he knew, but he wished time hadn't fled so fast. "Will I see you again tomorrow?"

    "Of course," said the Fool softly, bending to give Fitz one last lingering kiss. He patted Smithy on the head and turned to leave, but he could not resist giving Fitz a parting smile over his shoulder

     Fitz found himself blushing again at the Fool's kiss, and he waved with what he thought must be a stupidly infatuated smile on his face. He wondered if his face would ever lose its redness. Galen would skin him in the morning if he knew, and Fitz resolved to guard these memories well. He looked down at Smithy and tussled him to the bed. He and the Fool were his best secrets, Fitz thought. Chade was, too, he supposed. Three secrets, then, that he'd protect from Galen's Skill. It was worth it.

    The Fool had gone to attend Shrewd after he had left Fitz's chambers, but the buzz in the back of his head and the faint tingle on his lips caused him to walk around in more of a daze than he usually would have. By the time he reached the King, he did not remember having walked there. Their discussion was brief, and no other duties were required from the Fool for that day, and so he was soon dismissed. Upon returning to his room, the Fool watered all of his plants and stood staring for a long time at the pseudo-shrine he had built to Fitz. He wondered if he should give the other boy the gifts he had intended, but then his room would look so empty. As it was, the yellow flower had started to bloom and the Fool had not honoured his admission to himself. He decided there would be a better time to make gifts of the motley collection of items. Just as he was about to fetch the water for his bath, a page appeared at his door to tell him the King wished to see him again. The Fool frowned, confused. They had spoken of nothing that day, and so there could not possibly be anything Shrewd had forgotten. Perhaps there was some sort of emergency that required his Gift, he decided. Prematurely lamenting his headache, he made his way back to the King's chambers.

    Shrewd had had a long day, treading the winding steps of politics in order to insist on what must be done while simultaneously convincing his lords that they should be well pleased with his decisions. A difficult thing to do when war was such an expensive thing. A war that affected the inland duchies not at all, and so made them reluctant to part with their hard earned gold. The training of the new soldiers was going slowly, and the raids had not yet shown any signs of stopping, despite the lateness of the season. These frustrations had been paramount in his mind that day, and he had been hoping that at least his household could be at peace for one day. Unfortunately, it was not to be, if his half-brother's vague but irritated grumblings were to be believed. It was ridiculous. It was an insult. It was one more frustration that he disliked having to deal with. Nevertheless, he summoned the Fool to his chambers and sat waiting for him in his cushioned chair. When the Fool arrived, King Shrewd fixed him with a steady look. Strange as the Fool was, Shrewd found it hard to believe that Chade's hinted-at scandal could have any truth in it at all. "Fool," Shrewd welcomed mildly. "It occurred to me that I'd forgotten to ask you some things that I'd been meaning to. Tell me. What do you think of FitzChivalry? Is your opinion still the same as it was before?"

    The Fool felt his blood run cold. Had someone come to know what had passed between himself and Fitz? Perhaps it was coincidence, but in all of the Fool's teachings Fate did not allow such a thing. "Yes," he answered carefully. "Why should my opinion of him change? Nothing else has." It was a truth, as far as the Fool was willing to stretch it. Nothing had changed on his end, and even Fitz had admitted to fancying him before.

    A nod from Shrewd. It was unlike the Fool to respond with anything but enthusiasm to that oft-asked question. "I ask you, Fool, because I once again find myself with a dilemma... There's no need for you to stand there so uncomfortably. Come and sit down."

    With some amount of trepidation, the Fool seated himself docilely at the King's feet. Sometimes, when Shrewd wanted to remind his guests subtly of how much power he held, he had the Fool sit here. The boy mirrored this action now as a concession to that power; Shrewd was in charge, and he was not to be contested. The King had to know that the Fool knew that.

    Shrewd patted the Fool on the head as he sometimes did. "Now, I do not mean to alarm you when I say that. A bastard is a useful thing. A very useful thing, in the right circumstances and with the proper training. There's no need for royal blood to go to waste. Even now, FitzChivalry is being trained in the Skill. Even if he proves to lack any talent for our magic, if he can at least be open to it, his blood will make him easy to tap for strength: an ideal King's Man. It is also true, that a bastard can be sent to negotiate in places where a prince could not be risked but one of lesser blood would be turned away. There are many noble women, too, who would think a Farseer, even an illegitimate one, to be a fine marriage prospect. That could easily help us pave the way for an alliance. Very useful, wouldn't you say, Fool?"

    The Fool bit his lip. Even his faint hope of coincidence had taken flight from his mind. "Yes, sir," he replied, although he knew that the only woman for Fitz was Molly Chandler with her red skirts. "But I believe a person is of more value than a bastard is, even if such a person does happen to be of illegitimate blood. People are rarely so one-dimensional, and should not be judged or placed based on one aspect of their character. My King."

    "And what would you have me know about his value as a person, Fool?" Shrewd inquired.

    "I would simply have you know that he is not just the Bastard--" By Eda how he _hated_ that moniker-- "but he is _Fitz._ I think you might find his insights into his future helpful, if you would address his mind and not simply his blood, sir."

    Shrewd hummed thoughtfully. "I believe I understand your meaning. It is never wise to make assumptions about a person based solely on one circumstance or another... Believe it or not as you will, but I would have what is best for the boy. Bastard or not, he is my grandson. It was kill him or make him useful, and so I chose to make him useful. For all of those reasons I've listed, I believe that I've succeeded with the bastard... As a person, though, I wonder if I haven't been mistaken. FitzChivalry has proven to be an excellent student, and very intelligent if my sources are to be believed. Unfortunately, Skillmaster Galen also tells me that the boy is stubborn, lazy, and a liar who has been unable to conform to the rules that were set. I've also heard other, more disturbing rumours, regarding his proclivities. That is more problematic, wouldn't you say?"

    The Fool chose to address the comment regarding Galen instead. He did not want King Shrewd lecturing him about the propriety of his relationship with Fitz, because he already knew it was not meant to be. "Galen is the liar if he believes Fitz to be lazy!" he retorted indignantly. "Of course he is stubborn, but should not all nobles have an inkling of the stalwart blood that allowed King Taker to first found the Farseer clan? Fitz is the most hardworking person I know, and if you could see how hard he tries at all his other tasks, sir, you would see this to be true."

    Shrewd smiled tolerantly. "As always, you are quick to leap to the boy's defence. FitzChivalry has a fine defender in you, though I am forced to wonder if your affection doesn't blind you to some matters. Let me be clear with you: no matter how useful the bastard may be, if FitzChivalry the individual were to shame the Farseers with his conduct, there is only so much my lenience could spare him. A common man may have some leeway with his behaviour, but a member of the royal family must always hold himself to a higher standard or else be forced to pay the price for his actions. That price could be as costly as his life, if the offence were grave enough. I have no wish to see that occur. I trust that you share my distaste for that idea?"

    It was the closest Shrewd would get to addressing the issue directly, the Fool was certain. A part of him wanted to press the King further to make him speak clearly, but not only would that be out of line, but it would be much the same as someone telling him not to speak in riddles. It was in their characters. "Of course I do, sir," the Fool replied, humbled. "But even if he does commit some offence to tarnish the royal family, it still would not change my opinion of him."

    "I thought it wouldn't," Shrewd said. "That's good. You're a fine friend, Fool. A finer friend than many in this world are lucky enough to know. No matter what rumours my shadows have whispered to me, I find myself reluctant to believe them. Of course, I trust that you will encourage FitzChivalry to conduct himself with propriety? I will not tolerate base behaviour from a member of my family."

    The Fool tried not to let Shrewd's degradation of the love him and Fitz shared as 'base' hurt him too badly. He could not blame the King, who had fallen out of love with Queen Desire and who had married Queen Constance for political reasons. "As you wish, my King."

    "Very good," Shrewd nodded, satisfied. "I trust that you will also be careful yourself. I've grown fond of you, and I wouldn't like to see anything befall you. Whatever the cost such behaviour might be to a bastard, a royal one can be shown some mercy. A fool would not have that luxury."

    Though the King valued his insight, the Fool had no doubt that Shrewd would order him killed if he proved to be too much of an inconvenience to the crown. "Duly noted, sir," he replied. "I shall proceed with even more caution in the future."

    "I'm pleased to hear that. You may go now, Fool."

    The Fool bounced to his feet, bowed, and removed himself from the King's chambers. Yes, he would proceed with caution. But he had not specified in which respect he would proceed.

 

    Chade debated for a long time on how to broach the subject with Fitz. As it was, he had been intending to gain a bit of insight into the friendship that the boy had so long spoken of and Chade himself had never seen. He regretted having done so, but he realized it was a necessary misfortune. He had warned Fitz of the danger of such attentions that could be construed as flattery or admiration, but an action as direct as the one he had just seen had to be dealt with in a more blatant manner. He spoke with his brother, but did not tell him all he had seen. He had simply warned him to keep a tighter leash on the Fool. He did not want Fitz devalued in Shrewd's eyes. It was long into the night before Chade opened the passage, and then he stood at the table he gripped the edge tightly, watching the doorway through which Fitz would enter with unnerving tenacity.

    Fitz had fallen into an exhausted sleep not long after the Fool had left, but he fell asleep happy, rather than occupied with the feelings of inadequacy and incompetence that Galen usually inspired. Despite his weariness, his body somehow managed to waken to the opening of the secret passageway, and Fitz sat up and blinked at it stupidly. No-one was supposed to 'interfere' with the Skill candidates during their training, so he hadn't expected Chade's door to open to him any time soon. He slid out of bed and made his way up the steps, wondering if something serious had prompted the summons. He saw Chade at his table, but there was none of the clutter that would have indicated an experiment or some practical work to be done. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked at Chade curiously. "Chade. Is something wrong? I didn't think that you'd summon me during my training."

    "FitzChivalry," Chade said evenly. He could not think of how exactly to start this conversation, so he simply looked hard at the boy. He hoped maybe Fitz would pick up on the trouble he was in and initiate the conversation, but in the meantime he neither moved nor invited Fitz to sit down.

    Fitz could only blink at Chade. His eyes drifted around the room for some clue as to why he'd been summoned. No distillation apparatuses, no crucibles in the fire, no more than the usual number of scrolls and parchments strewn about and nothing that would indicate a particularly urgent topic of study... His gaze went back to Chade. His expression was grave, and he made no motion to welcome Fitz other than by naming him. Fitz would have expected Chade to inquire about his Skill training at the least. Something serious, then. Not the sort of serious thing that excited Chade, either, for he had none of the energy in his posture that would suggest something interesting to be done. He hadn't seen Chade quite so grave since his father had died, and Fitz felt his heart drop. "Chade..." Fitz began cautiously. "Did somebody die?" He thought of the sea pipes and was not sure how he would take it if he found out that Lady Patience had been killed.

    "No," said Chade, "but someone might very well be killed if what I saw today is to become any indication for the future." It was harsh, but the boy needed to know the consequences of his actions. "You acted rashly despite my warnings, and this will not be stood for."

    "I did?" Fitz wasn't quite sure what Chade could be referring to, until suddenly he was and his face turned scarlet. Chade did always seem to know when he was in his room. He must have seen... As quickly as he blushed, the colour drained from him. Such words from an assassin were probably not to be taken lightly, and Fitz found himself standing very still. Back in his room, Smithy had woken up and whined, and Fitz was reminded acutely of Nosey. Despite the sudden fear that rose in him, Fitz set his jaw stubbornly. Chade wouldn't have warned him before doing something like that to the Fool. "That was nobody's business but ours," Fitz said defensively. He didn't like to think long on the fact that Chade had seen them kissing.

    Chade sighed, and his face fell. It was the first emotion he had shown since Fitz had entered the room. "And yet, if anyone finds out about this, have you any idea the kind of trouble you could both get yourselves into? Do you ever _think_ before acting, Fitz? I thought I had taught you better." Feeling suddenly very old and weary, Chade made his way over to his chair. "You knew it was wrong."

    "I don't see why it is," Fitz protested, feeling stung by Chade's insult. He hesitated for a time, and then followed Chade to his chair. He didn't sit. "It's not as though _other_ people will be spying on what goes on in my rooms..."

    "You never know who could be watching or listening at any time. I am certain Shrewd has servants of whom I know nothing about, and all it would take is one rumour. Not to mention that if this...courtship--" He used the word almost distastefully-- "progresses any further, one or the other of you is bound to reveal yourselves."

    Fitz scowled stubbornly. Now that he knew no danger would come directly from Chade, his indignation was stronger than his fear. "And what if we did? Why should it matter? Chade, there must be far more important things for people to concern themselves with than whom I chose to court."

    "You realize you cannot marry him?" Chade asked with a raised eyebrow. "And what then? Do you not think there would be cause for suspicion at your decision to remain unwed?" He sincerely hoped he would not have to frighten the boy with stories about others who had fallen to this temptation, but Fitz certainly had the Farseer stubborn streak.

    "I see no reason why anyone should care much what a bastard does," Fitz mumbled. He looked over at the fire in the hearth. Witted people were hanged, quartered, and burned. His very birth was a mistake. Now his romantic inclinations were supposedly wrong as well. Was there nothing about him that was right? "Why does it have to be wrong?" Fitz asked, and there was something a bit desperate in his voice.

    Chade sighed, exasperated. "There is a reason that an heir can only be produced between a man and a woman. This is how it is meant to be." There were no reasons beyond that, nor should there be any need of any

    Fitz frowned into the flames. "I think that I can live with a bit of displeasure. No-one was pleased with my father for marrying Lady Patience, but he did.”

    "Fitz. Please, listen to me. I know you have made a mistake, and perhaps you see it as irreversible, but there is still time to repair any ills. I would hate to see such harm befall you as have previous men with this...affliction."

    Fitz paused to think. "You said before that someone might be killed. Were you serious?"

    "Yes." He nodded. "But death is not the end of it. Their names are stricken from the records. All honour is removed from their families. Their allies lose favour with the court. It is considered the basest of crimes, FitzChivalry, even more so than the Wit. For these men choose to act on their passions, whereas those with the Beast Magic react only to the animal inside them."

    Fitz froze at the mention of the Wit, and he looked at Chade, trying to find any trace of accusation in his expression. There was none. Only warning, and concern. Fitz felt a rush of shame. Chade had warned him, and he'd ignored it. Now Chade was attempting yet again to convince him of his error. It hurt, and it offended Fitz to think that his mentor could see something as being so wrong with him. He could have killed him and been done with it, though. In his way, Chade was trying to help. It truly was frightening to think that what he and the Fool did was so reviled. It felt right, so how could it be so wrong as to warrant death? Fitz took a breath and dropped his gaze. They would simply have to avoid being caught. "I understand... Chade, do you dislike me for it?"

    "No, Fitz." Chade shook his head. "You are but a boy still, and it is my job to guide you on the proper path to becoming a man. It is natural for you to make mistakes, and this is why I have warned you as I have. I trust you will consider your actions further in the future."

    The raising of him had been Burrich's job first, but Burrich despised his Wit. Now Chade found fault with him as well. Tired as he was, Fitz found it difficult not to hate himself in that moment. He could not give up Smithy, and he could not give up the Fool. If that were wrong, then so be it. He was too much of a coward to risk alienating himself from Chade, though, and so he bowed his head to hide his lie. "I'm sorry, Chade," he apologized.

    "I know, my boy," Chade replied. His voice softened now, convinced that Fitz had gotten the message. "Off to bed with you. Your Skill training has much taxed your mind."

 

_“For many long years, whenever I looked at Fitz all that came to mind was that first kiss. I know I certainly thought of it much in the Mountains, and I was none too subtle about any of it. As with all memories, though, in time it became less concrete, and the kiss Fitz gave me to begin our courtship anew took my breath away as much as that first one had.”_

_…_

_“I have a natural inclination for musical instruments and can play most of them after a quick study of their workings. The seapipes have been my favourite since childhood, however.”_

_\--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet_


	21. On Commencement and Companionship - Tenacity

_Is there anything so heady as a boy’s first love? Some might call it foolishness, and indeed it might have been, but I would say that love instilled in me a sort of reckless bravery. It was not that I was unaware of the consequences and dangers of my actions, it was rather that I did not care enough to stop. My passion gave a new energy to my days. An energy that I used to find ways of avoiding detection and stealing what moments I could to savour. Can I describe fully my joy at finding a quiet place where, after so long of restraint, I was free to take my Beloved in my arms and say the words “I love you”? The sweetness of those times could not be diminished by any number of warnings or knowledge of danger. In those times I was bold, enamoured, and far happier than I had ever been._

 

    The Fool had no doubt that it had been Chade that had seen him and Fitz kiss, and this did not help his disposition towards Shrewd's spy. Determined to get some time with Fitz without any outside interference, the Fool penned a brief note and slipped it into a sleeve as he brought Smithy back to Fitz's chambers. The day after the incidence would have been too soon to be safe, and so one day after that was when the Fool made his attempt to contact Fitz.

    Once they were inside the empty room, the Fool fought the urge to look around; it would not do for Chade--if he was around--to know the Fool was onto him. Instead, he snuck the note just under the edge of Fitz's sheets as Smithy jumped onto the bed. From the way the dust had collected on all the old gifts he had given Fitz before, it was obvious Chade did not touch anything, and it was possible he did not even enter the room. The Fool only hoped Fitz would find the note before it was too late at night. If he sat on the bed anywhere near the head, he was bound to. It was a full size piece of parchment when unfolded, but it said only one word: 'Rabbits.' Having accomplished his task, the Fool went down to the Gardens to wait

    Fitz had been tired and distracted the day after his kiss with the Fool and his late-night scolding from Chade. On one hand, his heart lifted with happiness whenever he thought of the Fool having reciprocated his affection at long last. On the other, if to love the Fool was as wrong and dangerous as Chade had suggested, he feared that in the course of their Skill practice, he might give himself away. He had no fear that Chade would kill the Fool, but he would not have put it past the man to find some way to try to dissuade him. Fitz was no stranger to the sort of politics their job entailed. The Fool would not be bribed away from him, nor did Fitz think that he would be easily frightened. Sent away, perhaps, but the Fool seemed to be privy to many of King Shrewd's secrets and Fitz doubted that it would be a wise decision to let him go.

    Mind occupied as it was, Fitz felt Galen's quirt and the back of his hand more than once that day. He accepted the punishment and knew that he deserved it. After nearly falling asleep over his porridge at dinner, Fitz was relieved to finally find his chambers. When he was met with Smithy and no Fool, he felt concern, but it was muted by his weariness and he soon fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. The following day, though, Fitz found himself preoccupied with thoughts of the Fool. He knew him to be alive, because Smithy was with him, and that was good. Still, he berated himself for not finding some way to contact the other boy. He did not feel safe wandering the keep after the evening meal--someone could report him to Galen. The Fool had solved that problem for him, though, and when Fitz returned to his chamber that evening, he heard the crinkle of parchment as he sat, and he cautiously withdrew the note. He grinned.

    It was an exercise of his assassin's skills to find his way out to the place where the Fool's rabbits were to be found. Though he longed to run, he forced himself to wait until an hour when the halls would be quiet, and he kept to the shadows as he crept down the servants' stairs and out a small door into the night air. He did not relax his guard until he had found that place between the keep and the castle wall. The Fool was already there and waiting, and Fitz felt himself grin.

    The Fool was sitting cross-legged by the rabbit burrow. One of its inhabitants had cautiously approached him after an hour of sitting still, and was sniffing at the Fool's hand. Upon hearing the other boy approach, however, the animal panicked and darted back into its burrow. The Fool looked up. "Good evening, FitzChivalry," he greeted, rising to his feet in a fluid motion.

    Fitz closed the distance between them at a trot. "Good evening." He smiled when he came to a stop a step from the Fool. The low light of evening was playing on his hair, the curves of his face, and the folds of his motley. His features were very delicate, and Fitz felt compelled to reach out and touch him. He did better than that, and bent to press a kiss to the Fool's lips in greeting. "I got your message," he said. "It was a good idea meeting out here."

    Not even daring to return the kiss, the Fool stepped away from Fitz. "This is an intermediary," he said. "We need to get away from the Keep; there are eyes everywhere. Even if this place is unknown, it may not remain so for long." He had whispered the words, and they came out in an urgent stream.

    Fitz frowned at the Fool's anxiety and instinctively quested out to him with calm. Since he had no sense of the Fool, he had no idea if it had any effect at all. "Did someone say something to you?" Fitz's mind flashed back to his theories about bribery and threats, and he clenched one hand into a fist.

    The Fool retreated behind the jester's persona. "Many people say many things to me. No matter the depth of my memory, you cannot expect me to retain them all, can you? Next, you'll be asking me to remember what the shadows whisper to each other!" He scoffed and flicked his eyes up over the wall. They needed to get out.

    Fitz continued to frown, but he followed the Fool's gaze and nodded once. "I'm sure they've got plenty to say," Fitz grumbled. "Come on." He knew a good place. It had not changed much in all of his years at Buckkeep, and Fitz could not help but wonder why no-one had noticed it.

    There was a tall tree near the wall in a place that was seldom visited, and it was the perfect place to climb up and over. Thinking back, he was amazed that he had not broken his neck as a child. He had not used it in years--the guards never questioned his comings and goings by the main gates--but he felt sure that it would still be there, and it was. The old tree had plenty of footholds in the bark, and the branches did not seem terribly unsteady.

    The Fool wasted no time in darting past Fitz, up the tree, and over the wall. He moved as quickly and adeptly as a squirrel in the branches, and landed lightly off of his hang-drop from the other side. He stepped out of the way so Fitz would not land on him when he came down, pressing his back against the wall. His heart was thundering in his chest.

    Fitz clambered up and over as well, not quite as comfortable with the climb as the Fool had been. He felt rather impressed at the other boy's agility, but supposed that he shouldn't have been given the acrobatic tricks that the Fool regularly performed. When he was down, he raised his eyebrows at the Fool. How far would they be going?

    The Fool had not really planned past getting away from the castle's walls, but he supposed they could not stay right outside. What if someone decided to go for a nighttime ride? What if Chade marked their absence and sent someone to scout just outside the walls? Wordlessly, he took Fitz's hand and led him towards their route to town and the beach. It was the first safe place he could think of.

    Fitz took the Fool's hand gratefully and gave it a gentle squeeze, as he followed the Fool's lead. Once he realized where they must be going, he felt himself smiling. The walk down to the beach was a tricky one in daylight, with the steep slopes, branches, and loose rocks. It would be trickier once night fell, but at least they would be going uphill then. As it was, the evening light was plenty to see by, at least for Fitz.

    Though there was probably little need for it once they'd left the walls of the castle, their walk was a quiet one. Fitz didn't mind the quiet any more than he had the first time they had visited the beach so long ago. They had never truly needed words. Though he could not sense the Fool with his Wit, there had always seemed to be some thread of awareness shared between them. It vibrated like a plucked harp string now. Fitz felt a bit anxious as he wondered what exactly had caused such fear in the Fool.

    The Fool felt the tension leave him when he spied the shoreline through a gap in the trees. He sped up a little, letting go of Fitz's hand to do so. When he was safely on the sand, he turned back to regard the other boy and waited for him to catch up.

    Fitz pushed his way through the brush, and almost stumbled over a rock before emerging onto the sand. He stepped closer to the Fool and gave him a hopeful smile. "Will you kiss me now?"

    Practically throwing himself into Fitz's arms, the Fool put his own around Fitz's neck and pressed their lips together. The erratic beating of his heart, which had calmed somewhat upon leaving the presence of the Keep, resumed once more, but for completely different reasons.

    Fitz smiled into the kiss and returned it wholeheartedly, putting his arms around the Fool and holding him close. It felt good to have him in his arms; to be able to feel the realness of him and keep him close. Fitz tilted his head to deepen their kiss and felt some of the anxious tension leave him. Whatever had so scared the Fool, had not scared him badly enough to make him change his mind. Fitz brought their kiss to a gentle close, and then playfully nudged the Fool's nose with his own. "I missed you," he said quietly.

    "I missed you too," the Fool whispered. He tried to edge closer to Fitz: it was a chilly evening, and the breeze off of the water did not help matters. "We couldn't risk this within the Keep," he explained by way of apology. "King Shrewd spoke to me of it ereyesterday."

    Fitz kept his arms around the Fool in a loose embrace. It was comfortable. He frowned at the news, but was not surprised that King Shrewd had heard. Chade reported to him, after all. "Was he upset?" Fitz asked, holding the Fool a bit tighter. Nothing either man said would make him give the Fool up.

    The Fool shook his head. "He only mentioned future marriage prospects for you...and the fact that you are still charged with maintaining the Farseer honour." He grimaced at this. "And then he told me to be careful around you. So I told him I would proceed with caution." The grimace was suddenly replaced by a sly grin. "So here I am, proceeding with you, in caution."

    Chuckling, Fitz leaned down to steal another quick kiss. "You've obeyed your order to the letter. Chade spoke with me as well. I've no idea how he saw. As much as I hate to say it, I agree that we ought to avoid the Keep..." It was regrettable, because it was warm in the Keep and far more comfortable. Fitz wondered if he could sneak an old blanket to stow nearby. The weather would be turning colder soon. Until he could do that, he supposed that they would simply have to keep themselves warm in other ways. "It's no business of theirs what we do, and King Shrewd can forget any ideas of marrying me off."

    The Fool raised his eyebrows. "Be careful who you speak to of the shade in the corners of the Keep," he warned. Technically, he was not supposed to know Chade existed, much less his name. That Shrewd trusted him with these facts did not change that.

    Fitz accepted that with a small grimace. He had grown too comfortable with the Fool, he supposed. He had never made mention of Chade to anyone else, save Shrewd, nor heard mention of him from anyone around the keep. From his talk of shadows and his standing with King Shrewd, Fitz had simply assumed the Fool knew. By his reply, Fitz decided that he had been correct. "You're right," Fitz agreed. "You had a clever idea with your message. Thank you. I was worried about how I would contact you."

    "Never fear. I have more than enough cleverness for the both of us," the Fool chuckled, tapping the side of Fitz's head. He kissed the other boy on the corner of the lips to take away the sting of his insult.

    Fitz grinned and stole another kiss, "I know, you're very clever..." His smile faded. "I'm sorry that we have to hide like this." The wind had tousled the Fool's hair, and Fitz smoothed it out of his face. It was very soft, and Fitz wondered if the Fool minded him touching it.

    "That's alright," the Fool replied. "It's better than not seeing you at all. We simply must make the best of the time we have..." A smile, half shy and half mischievous, curled one side of his mouth.

    "I couldn't agree more," Fitz said, his voice low. He kissed the Fool again, with none of the chasteness of the last. How could something so wonderful possibly be wrong?

    The Fool tightened his grip on Fitz, pressing himself closer so their chests touched. He took the initiative this time, tilting his head a little and running his tongue along Fitz's bottom lip. He had scarcely thought of anything but the last kiss since it had happened.

    Fitz was pleasantly surprised by the Fool's boldness and he wrapped his arms around him, both to hold him closer and to shield him from the wind. He retaliated by parting his lips and finding the Fool's tongue with his own.

    Wrapped as he was in warmth and bliss, the Fool barely felt the wind. He buried one hand in Fitz's hair while the other came down to the side of his neck. A faint tingle started in his heart and trickled down into his stomach, as if a whole colony of ants was parading around inside him.

    Fitz hummed his approval and sucked on the Fool's lower lip gently before exploring his mouth with his tongue. He did not think that he could ever possibly grow tired of kissing the Fool. His taste and the friction of their lips moving together were addictive, and he thought that he could very possibly do this forever. He slid one hand upward to cup the back of the Fool's head, and gripped his waist with the other. Drawing back fractionally, Fitz bit down gently on the Fool's lip and then kissed it in apology. He pressed another soft kiss to the corner of the Fool's lips, and then pressed a hot and open-mouthed kiss to the blood point at his throat.

    The Fool's mouth fell open in surprise and pleasure, and a stuttering moan fell from his throat. He had no idea such pleasure was even possible, and the tension in his stomach strengthened, a fire spreading to every extremity. His hand tightened in his lover's hair, tugging less than gently. His other fist clenched as well, and his nails gently scratched the side of Fitz's neck.

    Fitz was very alright with that, and the pounding of his heart sent fire washing through him, even as his arousal surged. Any thoughts relating to the Keep or its inhabitants were cast aside in favour of the much more pleasing prospect of making the Fool make that sound again. Something inside of him wanted to bite down, but he channeled that into a scraping of the teeth and laving of his tongue. He moved his attentions lower, bending slightly at the knees to do so, and tasted the skin where it peeked out at the edge of the Fool's motley. The hand on the Fool's head slid down as well, coming to rest at the nape of his neck. The one at his waist gripped tightly.

    Deciding that he missed the Fool's lips, Fitz nuzzled the crook of his neck and then rose to capture them again. His mouth was demanding and ardent, but never ungentle.

    "Fitz," the Fool breathed, a mere second before his lips were taken once more. He surrendered completely to Fitz's advances, letting the other boy lead but returning his affections with equal fervour. He untwisted Fitz's hair from around his fingers, but resorted instead to running them repeatedly through its length. His other hand came down once more to rest over Fitz's heart.

    Fitz kissed the Fool enthusiastically. He was sure that the Fool would notice the evidence of his interest, but he made no apology this time. His thumb traced a line down the back of the Fool's neck, smoothing the small hairs there. When he finally brought their kiss to an end, Fitz thought that his chest might burst with love for the Fool. Fitz's own eyes were dark as he looked at the other boy.

    The Fool indeed noticed, and half of his attention was focused on trying not to let his own interest become too obvious. As their kiss broke, the Fool brought his hands up to Fitz's cheeks, his thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones. He smiled slightly, then leaning forward to press a warm kiss to Fitz's forehead. As he pulled away, he let his brow rest against the other boy's and closed his eyes. The dreamy smile had not left his face.

    Fitz slid his arms around the Fool in an embrace. He could feel the Fool's breath, and it pleased him inordinately that they were breathing the same air. Fitz could still feel his heart pounding in his chest, and he had to swallow a lump in his throat before he could speak. As he opened his mouth, he found that he had no words for his feelings. Desire was too superficial, completeness was inadequate, and adoration was not the whole of it.

    "I love you," he said at last. Even those words were not enough. It was true. The Fool was everything he wanted, he felt completed when they were together, and he adored all of the little things that he'd learned about the Fool over the years. But he also valued the Fool as his own person, felt joy in their differences, and knew with certainty that they would annoy one another occasionally. All of it was perfect.

    "I love you too," the Fool murmured. He did not open his eyes, but he did not need to. He had long ago memorized every detail of that perfect face and marked its every change. No matter how drastic of a transformation Fitz went through to become a man, the Fool felt so connected to him that he would be able to anticipate those changes. It was as if Fitz was as much a part of him as his own right hand, and blind as he was in the moment, he could see the other boy perfectly in his mind's eye: so perfectly he knew he would be able to recreate that beauty even years from now, no matter how it was altered. His arms came back up to rest atop Fitz's shoulders and he gently caressed the back of his neck. "You complete me."

    "I feel the same way," Fitz said. "It's funny. I can't feel you with my Wit, but you're still always there somehow. Just knowing that, it makes me feel happier than I ever thought I could be." Chade, Shrewd, and everyone else could hang their opinions. This could not possibly be wrong.

    "That's because we're connected by Fate herself," the Fool told Fitz."I told you once that two men would be enough to save the world where one hundred cannot. We are those two, FitzChivalry, and to be one with you is as natural as the very breath of life."

    "So, you're saying that we were meant to fall in love?" Fitz asked. It almost did feel that way. He felt drawn to the Fool, and being with him felt like the most natural thing he'd ever done.

    The Fool knew he had to be careful where he tread here, and he chose his words carefully. "When both of us have done what duties we must, then Fate intends us to be together, in peace, for the rest of Time."

    Fitz leaned back to shake his head, a fond smile on his face. "You could have just said yes," he teased, and then he leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to the Fool's lips. "The rest of time sounds nice, though."

    It was not as simple as 'yes' or 'no.' There were so many other factors to consider, and the inclusion of Molly into Fitz's life was barely skimming the barrel. He did not think this would be the best time to confuse Fitz, however, and his job as Prophet would be made much easier if he was the one that held the knowledge. The Fool felt some measure of guilt at hiding things from Fitz, but that was what was necessary.

    There was one thing he could tell him, however. "If we succeed, the rest of Time will be forever. Eternity: longer than you or I can even imagine."

    "Succeed at what?" Fitz asked, but he was not very focused on receiving an answer. He kissed the Fool's cheek and then, playfully, his nose. "I think that I could spend an eternity doing this."

    "Our _Destinies_ ," the Fool tried to explain, some exasperation evident in his voice. He was not overly interested in the topic, however, not while surrounded by Fitz's warm embrace with the promise of more kisses looming just ahead.

    "If they're our destinies, then we're guaranteed to fulfil them...The world will be saved and then we get an eternity together." Fitz could see nothing wrong with that. The fire of his passion had settled into coals, smouldering in a pleasant way that made him happy and his thoughts a bit muzzy. He kissed the Fool again, longer this time, savouring the way the Fool's lips felt against his own.

    A frustrated grunt had begun to issue from the Fool's throat--Fitz did not quite understand that Destinies were only what was _supposed_ to happen, and it was up to them to ensure it--but that noise trailed off into a softer one upon the next kiss. He decided to forfeit the discussion; Fitz would understand eventually, and for now this was much better.

    Fitz smiled briefly against the Fool's lips, and then deepened their kiss. He took his time to explore the ridges of the Fool's teeth, to suck on his lip, and to gently nibble at it before soothing it with his tongue. His hand, he slid down the Fool's back, trailing along the dip and ridges of his spine and feeling the contours of his body. He felt very alive beneath Fitz's hands, and Fitz wanted to know more. Wanted to feel his skin, taste it, and memorize every bit of it. Tentatively, he pulled away and his hand hovered over the laces at the Fool's collar. He looked inquiringly at the Fool for permission.

    The fire in his heart turned to a lurch, and it took all the Fool's effort not to knock Fitz's hands out of the way. Instead, he steeled himself and gripped the other boy's wrists, bringing them down to waist level. He gave his head the tiniest of shakes and tried not to appear frightened.

    Fitz had not expected quite so strong a reaction, and his eyebrows flew up. He stood perfectly still for a moment, allowing the Fool to move him as he would, and he knew both concern and confusion. They showed in his expression. "I apologize," Fitz said gently, instinctively and probably ineffectually questing out with calm. He held his hands out away from his sides, palms up, to show that he meant no harm.

    The Fool nodded. "You're forgiven," he said, a bit awkwardly. It would not have done to say it was alright, when clearly it had not been. He pressed his lips together, wondering if he had ruined what they had had. In order to reassure Fitz that he was not too upset, he pressed his palms against the other boy's and laced their fingers together.

    Fitz allowed himself to relax minutely. He did not know the underlying reasons for the Fool's alarm, but he felt vaguely guilty for having caused it. He gripped the Fool's hands and knew better than to pry. If the Fool wanted him to know, he would say. Instead, Fitz offered the Fool a small smile. "It's cold out isn't it? Winter will soon be fully upon us. Should we find a place to sit that's out of the wind?"

    "That would be for the best," the Fool agreed. The fire that was in his belly had hardened and now it felt as if there was a rock that sat in his stomach. He could not help but think what would happen if he could not make Fitz happy; he had known what taking a lover entailed. And yet, the threat of baring his skin had been so terrifying to him that he wondered if he could ever subject himself to it, even for Fitz's sake. "I'm sorry."

    Fitz frowned. "It's alright, Fool. You don't have to be sorry. _I'm_ the one who should be sorry for doing that..." Chade's words about 'unwelcome advances' made an unwelcome appearance in his mind, but Fitz pushed them away.

    Shaking his head slowly, the Fool gave Fitz's hand a slight tug. "Where should we sit?" he asked, so that they did not have to continue speaking of the matter. As it was, his thoughts were in a flurry. He wanted to want to press further, and yet even the thought of it made his skin crawl. He thought maybe something was wrong with him, but determined to put it out of his mind.

    Fitz cast his gaze about for a suitable spot, and at last thought that he found one a ways back toward the trees. The ground there was a bit more rocky than sandy, but an outcropping of larger rocks and tree roots provided some welcome shelter from the wind. Humid as it was, Fitz thought the wind went right through to his bones. He could only imagine how the Fool felt. After everything they had just done, he felt a bit silly for being cautious about putting his arm around the Fool. Nevertheless, he did so slowly so that the Fool could pull away if he liked.

    The Fool accepted the contact gratefully, leaning right up against Fitz and tucking his head into the other boy's shoulder. He could feel the goosebumps on his arms and crossed them over his chest, curling his legs up as well. In that way, the cold could not quite reach him, and he felt very content simply sitting and watching the far off waves.

   Fitz was glad that the Fool had not pulled away from his touch, and he held the Fool close to him gratefully. Had he simply pushed the Fool too quickly, or had it been something else? Was that something to do with fear, or with disgust? Fitz shook his worries away, contenting himself with the fact that they'd been more than comfortable kissing. Truly, he probably had been overeager and he would have to have better control over himself in the future. He rubbed the Fool's arm gently.

     "It'll be more difficult to sneak out here once the weather turns for the worst. What should we do then?" He doubted that town would be any safer than the keep for their privacy, but they could possibly find some old huntsman's shack in the woods, or make use of one of the Fool's many hiding places.

    The Fool sighed gently. "It cannot be anywhere too far away, else we shall scarcely get there before we are forced to turn back." He frowned as he thought. "You know, my chambers might be isolated enough so that the shadows cannot touch them, but you would be in a better position to check than I."

    Fitz blinked at the Fool, wondering if that were an invitation or merely a thought. "Possibly," he said slowly, "but is that something that you're comfortable with?" It had, admittedly, been a bit of a sore spot with him that the Fool had never allowed him to see his chambers, but he was not willing to go where he was unwelcome.

    The Fool actually considered the matter, which he had not done before mentioning it. "As a last resort," he admitted at length. "As I said, anything really is better than not being able to see you." He looked up as he said this, catching Fitz's dark eyes with his pale ones.

    Fitz gave the Fool a smile and chanced leaning down to give him a quick kiss. "We'll figure something out. We have time before it gets too cold, and I'll try to sneak a blanket out here next time so that we'll be more comfortable." It was growing dark, but Fitz rather enjoyed the dusk. The rhythmic sough of the waves was soothing, and the thought of sharing a blanket with the Fool while looking out at the sea was a pleasant one.

    The Fool smiled and rested his head back on Fitz's shoulder. The motion of the waves caught his eyes and held them, and the rhythmic surges onto the beach lulled him into a pleasantly dazed state. Farther towards town, he saw the sails of a ship coming home to port. "Ship of magic..." he whispered, the words of a long-passed Prophecy trickling through his mind. It was not one he himself had Dreamed, and yet he knew he had never read it before, either.

    "Hm?" Fitz asked, resting his head against the Fool's.

    "What Ship of Magic brings Fate about?...With Catalyst's likeness slice through the sea...Called only mad ship by the Catalyst’s doubt...Yet the Prophet names it ship of Destiny." As soon as the words passed his lips they slipped out of his head, and trying to recall them after that would have been like grabbing the smoke of the distant town.

    Fitz tried to follow along the words, but could make no sense of them. "Was that some sort of a riddle?"

    "What?" The Fool lifted his head again. "No...no it wasn't."

    "Oh, was it a poem then? I've never heard it before." Fitz mulled the words over, trying to find some hidden meaning.

    "Of a sort," the Fool replied evasively. He knew that Fitz knew he Dreamed the future, but he was unsure if the other boy would be made uncomfortable--or even consider it madness--if he told him that his Dreams manifested themselves as Prophecies like that one.

    "It was sort of pretty," Fitz said, not knowing what else to say to such an answer. "Have you ever been on a ship?"

    "Yes," the Fool answered, "but not the sort of ship that would make a good poem." He did not know what the destined ship would look like (nor could he remember quite what he had said), but he would know it when he saw it.

    Fitz looked back out at the water at that, wondering at the Fool's words and whether they were a subtle hint not to probe any further. "I've never been on one before. Not that I can remember. I used to hear stories in the taverns down in town, though...Verity was thinking of having warships built to defend our coasts. I suppose we'll have plenty more sailors soon enough."

    "I heard the proposition he made to King Shrewd," the Fool told Fitz. "He's quite well-prepared, and I think he would well be able to defend the kingdom."

    Fitz was surprised to think on how much time had passed since he'd begun his Skill training. Not terribly long, but it was long enough that he felt rather out of touch with what had been going on in the wider world. Galen had insisted that his students not be interfered with, and so Fitz had not spoken with Chade other than their brief conversation the other night, and he had not spoken with Burrich, Lady Patience, or Chade either. "Tell me, do you know anything of how the preparations are proceeding, or if anything else of import has gone on?"

    The Fool smiled slyly. "There is a great deal I know," he replied. "The King's hearth whispers in my ear quite a bit. However, if I were to divulge that information I imagine it would cease its wagging tongue." Shrewd had made it clear that any conversation in his chambers stayed there.

    Fitz could not fault the Fool for his silence. He would not have divulged any news learned at Chade's feet either. "I imagine that you must be right," Fitz agreed, "What of smaller news about the Keep?”

    The Fool frowned. "I doubt there is anything about that would interest you," said the Fool, who kept up on all of the gossip. "Except--" He sat up straight-- "there was a rumour about one of Mistress Hasty's girls being Witted."

    Fitz raised his eyebrows. He doubted that such a rumour could have been good for the girl based on Burrich and Galen's revulsion for the magic. "Is she alright?"

    "It was not so much a rumour as a wild accusation," the Fool clarified. "You see, she and another girl had a quarrel. The very next day, the other girl was bitten by a rat who was hiding among the spools of thread, and the supposedly-Witted girl laughed. So naturally, the victim accused the girl of having set the rat on her. No one took it with much truth."

    Fitz sighed in relief. "That's good. It would have been awful for the girl to have been killed for a thing like that. Even if she were Witted and had done such a thing, it sounds as though it was fairly harmless."

    "You know, I have never heard either Shrewd or Verity speak of the Wit," the Fool remarked in passing, while he thought of it. "I don't even know if they view it the same way Burrich does."

    Fitz shook his head. "I'd never risk telling them though. Verity, perhaps, but not King Shrewd."

    "You don't trust King Shrewd?" the Fool asked with some concern.

    Fitz gave the answer some thought before he gave it. "It isn't that I don't trust him," he began. That did not prevent a cold ball of dread from forming in his belly at the thought of mentioning his baser magic to Shrewd. "Rather that I trust him to do what he thinks is best...If he viewed my magic as tainting the Farseer bloodline somehow, I know not how he would react."

    "He won't kill you," the Fool quickly asserted. "I made sure a long time ago that he would never kill you." Personally he had seen nothing wrong with Fitz's magic, and had considered it a personal aversion on Burrich's part to this point.

    Fitz looked at the Fool wonderingly. The boy said that he had made up a king's mind as matter-of-factly as one might comment on the weather. Fitz shook his head. "Perhaps he wouldn't, but he might not see me in the same light. Our relationship is one based on a contract, not familial love. In a way, I cost him his eldest son's life. He has no reason to forgive me for having what is believed to be a vile magic."

    That only deepened the Fool's frown. "You didn't kill Prince Chivalry," he said. "As a matter of fact, in a way you are all that is left of his eldest son. He should cherish you for that, not to mention the fact that you are a loyal grandson and servant to him. I shall speak to him of this," he decided.

    "You don't have to do that," Fitz protested. "Besides, I doubt that anything you can say will alter what he might think of me. He also warned you against being with me, didn't he? King Shrewd might find it suspicious if you were to sing my praises like that."

    The Fool smiled. "I also told him that I would never change my opinion of you, no matter what came to pass. He accepted that."

    Fitz returned the smile, and could not help but marvel at the Fool's boldness. It was tinged with a bit of sadness. The Fool seemed genuinely to care about King Shrewd, and was closer to him than Fitz could ever hope to be. Fitz was not jealous of that position, but it did remind him of his standing as the lowly bastard grandson. Would that change once he mastered the Skill, or would that only make him a slightly more valuable tool to be used? It was probably the latter. "You amaze me, Fool. King Shrewd must be very fond of you to accept such a remark."

    The Fool shrugged. "I have helped to change the course of this kingdom several times since coming into his service. He recognizes my value, and in turn he considers my opinions." He paused, leaning back against Fitz. "I have done my best to have him think highly of you."

    "I hope you don't think me ungrateful...I thank you for that, I really do. Your words could have saved my life. I only think it best that I keep my Wit secret for now. I've told no-one of it but you. Burrich found out on his own."

    "I don't think you ungrateful," the Fool protested. "I accept that you wish to keep that part of yourself secret; you are far from the only one hiding."

    Fitz smiled and tightened the arm that he held around the Fool in a sort of one-armed embrace. "Thank you...It's getting cold now that the sun's set. I'm reluctant to go, but perhaps we should start to make our way back."

    The Fool nodded, but made no move to get up. He could have stayed there with Fitz indefinitely. It was certainly the safest he had ever felt in his life, and he knew he would get cold if he stood.

    Fitz could not bring himself to rise either. He held the Fool against him, and though the beach was cold, it was also private. A small refuge away from the prying eyes of the keep. A place where they could act without restraint. The air between them felt like it was tinged with magic, and the distance seemed far too great. Fitz leaned closer and tilted his head to steal a kiss.

    Without sparing a thought about it, the Fool reached up to set his hand gently on Fitz’s cheek. It was natural to do so--just as natural as deepening the kiss. His other arm came up around Fitz’s shoulders and he smiled softly into the kiss.

    Fitz inhaled sharply through his nose at feeling the Fool's lips begin to move against his own in reciprocation. He shut his own eyes and leaned closer, pouring all of the love he could into that one kiss. He slid his tongue along the Fool's lips and sucked gently on the lower one before delving deeper still. He didn't want the moment to end, and the thought that they would eventually have to part ways was torturous.

    The Fool nipped lightly at Fitz's lower lip in answer before pressing their tongues together. Every time the Fool rediscovered Fitz's taste he fell in love all over again, and he issued a small, high-pitched groan of satisfaction. Since they could not speak, engaged as they were, the Fool attempted to convey his love through his mind and the tenuous connection he had felt between them before, as well as his body language.

    Fitz enjoyed the noises the Fool would make. Every time, he wanted to find new ways to elicit them. His own answering sound was almost a growl as their tongues met. The wet friction made him see stars behind his eyelids. Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on the Fool, and his other hand came up to thread his fingers through the Fool's airy hair.

    The Fool pulled his hand out of the sand to push his hat irritably off of his head. The feeling of fingers through his hair brought a whole new elation of which he longed for more, and Fitz's growl had set the fire in his belly to burning again. He set his now free hand to Fitz's shoulder and pressed against him so heavily that they were half-leaning over into the sand.

    The next sound Fitz made was a helpless one and he pulled the Fool closer still with an arm about his waist. He could feel the beat of his heart in his chest and every nerve of his seemed to be buzzing. The Fool's lips were like ice and fire both, and he drank the sensation in greedily.

    Fitz broke the kiss only long enough to redirect his attentions to the Fool's neck again, where he repeated the open-mouthed press of lips and tongue that had earned him a reaction from the Fool before. He gave in to his impulse this time, and bit down gently, just the slightest press and scrape of teeth before pressing a soft kiss there and, in a moment of inspiration, blowing a small breath of air over the spot.

    "Fitz!" The name fell from the Fool's mouth once more, but this time there was more of a whimper beneath his heavy breathing. He clutched at the other boy's back, as if desperately trying to pull him into himself. His breath was hot and laboured right by Fitz's ear and he bit his lip to avoid crying out too loudly.

    Fitz pressed a soft kiss just beneath the Fool's jaw, and then another. He then moved to claim the Fool's lips once more, meanwhile he slid his fingers through the Fool's hair. He was aching by then to be as close to the Fool as he could. To touch him, feel his skin, and taste every part of him. He cautioned himself to restraint though, and busied himself with an exploration of the Fool's mouth. Every kiss was familiar, but like a new world all the same. He thought that he could become drunk off of the Fool's taste alone.

    Emboldened by Fitz's passion, the Fool let the kiss go on long enough to reciprocate and suck lightly on Fitz's tongue. He then moved his own attentions down to his lover's neck, starting just below his ear and tracing a light line of kisses down to his collar, nibbling the skin along the way.

    Fitz gasped and shut his eyes, tilting his head permissively. His hand clenched in the Fool's hair, but he relaxed the grip once he noticed it. His own breath was deep and quick, and it was almost torturous how very aroused he was. He swallowed with the effort it took not to move in some way, but could not stop the groan that left him. His hand trembled on the Fool's back, and he slid the other down to the back of the Fool's neck where he drew circles with his thumb.

    As he kissed back up the trail he had just left, the Fool let his lips linger longer each time. He flicked his tongue against Fitz's skin once he returned to where he had started, and gently tugged the skin with his teeth. He was conscious about his love bites, determined not to hurt Fitz.

    Fitz took a shuddering breath. Every touch of the Fool's lips to his skin sent something like magic tingling across his skin, and made tension coil in his belly. The biting nearly undid him, and Fitz pulled the Fool back, not ungently, so that he could kiss him again. It was artless and messy, with some clacking of teeth, and so Fitz mastered his passion in order to pull back a bit and drag his teeth across the Fool's lower lip and find his tongue with his own. He slid his fingers down the line of the Fool's spine and then settled that hand at the Fool's waist. The other, he put back into the Fool's hair, tangling his fingers there

     It was Fitz's blind lust that finally aroused the Fool to the same point as his lover. He was being kissed with such animalistic ardour that he could not help but surrender control of his body and allow himself to reciprocate with actions just as uncoordinated. Another quiet moan left him.

    Fitz practically snarled, and he held the Fool against him as closely as their position would allow. He kissed the Fool as though he wanted to devour him, and he did want to taste him. Fitz renewed his attentions on the Fool's neck and jawline, with a multitude of scattered kisses and the pressing of teeth to skin, never enough to harm, but pressure enough to be felt. His hand gripped the Fool's hip.

    The Fool gripped Fitz's hand on his hip hard, but he did not remove it. All he could do in response to Fitz's frenzied kisses was to tip his head back, lavishing in the attention. A shiver went through him as the cool breeze off the water danced past his bared throat.

    Fitz made a choked sound and ducked his head, resting his brow against the Fool's shoulder while he panted. He felt he was shaking all over. "Fool, I'm going to embarrass myself if we don't stop for a moment." It was already embarrassing to admit that, but it was less so than the alternative.

    "Take your time, my love," the Fool panted, his hands against his own hip and Fitz's chest relaxing as the kiss was broken. He became acutely aware of his own arousal and tried to focus on lessening it, his eyes still closed as he too rested his head on Fitz's shoulder.

    Fitz flattened his palm against the Fool's back and curled the other arm around him in an embrace. He could not help but smile a bit at the endearment. Should he have one for the Fool as well? "My love," Fitz repeated. "Should I have a name for you as well? Like dear, or darling, or beloved?"

    "Beloved," the Fool gasped, jerking upright to look Fitz in the eye. "Would you truly call me Beloved?" Hearing his own name from Fitz's lips had set his heart racing anew, and the tenderness with which the word was formed nearly moved him to tears.

    Fitz blushed and looked back at the Fool. His eyes were still dark with passion. "Of course, then. Beloved."

    The Fool went the deepest shade of scarlet he ever had, a huge smile breaking out across his face. "I love you!"

    Fitz could not help but give an answering grin, and he felt the Fool's proclamation strike him right in the heart. The Fool was wonderful, and it felt good to have so pleased him. Fitz ran his fingers through the boy's hair, pushing the wild stuff out of the way so that he could press another smiling kiss to the Fool's lips. "I love you too, Beloved. You're the most important person to me."

    The Fool did break down then, burying his face in Fitz's shoulder with elated giggles that barely masked his sobs. He hugged the other boy tightly; his chest felt as though it was being stood upon by a horse, but the joy that released was unparalleled in his life.

    Fitz clutched the Fool to him and rubbed soothing circles between his shoulder blades. "I'll always love you. More than anything," Fitz promised, murmuring the words by the Fool's ear.

    The Fool nodded quickly, but he could not speak. He wanted to let Fitz know that he was not upset, simply experiencing an overflow of emotion. He balled his fists in Fitz's tunic and let his tears fall freely; that was usually the fastest way to calm down.

    Fitz sat quietly then, holding the Fool and letting him cry. He felt a bit bewildered that the Fool could grin, and laugh, and cry all at once, and so he did what he could by being there and hoped that it was enough. He continued his rubbing of the Fool's back and waited patiently for him to quieten.

    When the Fool finally calmed down he looked up, breathless with laughter even as the last vestiges of his tears flowed away and his eyes were reddened from crying. "I apologize," he said quietly. "There was no need to subject you to that."

    Fitz looked into the Fool's face and wiped his tears away with careful fingers. "You don't have to be sorry, Fool. Not in the slightest. Are you alright?"

    The Fool nodded, the beginnings of a grin stealing their way over his lips again. "The best I have ever been, I believe."

    Fitz nodded once. "Well, good then. I'm glad." He smiled.

    "Today has been the best day," the Fool declared as he stood, offering Fitz his hand to pull him up. "Indeed, I believe the memory of this day alone could sustain me for a hundred more lifetimes."

    Fitz’s smile widened and he took the Fool’s hand in his. For a dizzying moment, it was as though their edges blurred and in the place where their hands met, they were made whole. The sensation made Fitz’s heart leap. “This was the best day of my life, too. Aside from the day we met, of course,” he said softly when he’d gained his footing. He laced their fingers together, unwilling to let go.

    The Fool let out a soft gasp, and he looked up at Fitz with barely contained awe. “Truly?”

    Fitz was puzzled. "Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

    "I--" It was time for him to stop thinking that the meetings between them held depth only for the Prophet. The Catalyst was bound to experience just as much. He fell silent.

    Fitz shook his head in fond exasperation and pressed a kiss to the Fool's cheek before stooping to retrieve the Fool's hat for him and dust it off. "Here," he said, presenting it.

    The Fool accepted it with a smile and put it back on, taking a few moments to arrange his hair properly beneath it. "Thank you." He straightened Fitz's tunic and fixed both of their collars, and then turned back towards the Keep, clasping Fitz's hand as they walked.

    Fitz held the Fool's hand tightly all the way, for as long as he was able. He knew that he would never give the Fool up for anything. Even if they had to hide their love, they would have their stolen moments. Nothing Chade or Shrewd could say would ever convince him that what they had was wrong.

 

_“Sometimes, when a person is happy for so long at a time, they begin to feel as if sadness can never reach them again. The universe is never so kind, though, and all the days with no strife are often made up for with grief so deep that the afflicted cannot fathom how they ever doubted their capacity to feel pain. It is this sadness that is the worst, for the subject will turn once more to the source of their happiness only to find that it cannot help at all, merely offer a shallow comfort. In that moment, the person who is sad is reminded of the mundanity of their source of happiness, and it dawns on them that nothing is as divine as they believed it to be. It leads to a rude awakening to the unforgiving nature of the world.”_

_…_

_“For a very long time, at least in my childish eyes, Fitz made me happier than I ever could have imagined.”_

_\--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	22. On Commencement and Companionship - Bereavement

_ The Skill is a powerful magic. It is not surprising that the Farseers eventually restricted the teaching of it to the royal family and a select coterie. The simplest use of it involves the sharing of thoughts and the passing of messages, but that much can be accomplished with a few good messenger birds. Far more powerful is the subtle influencing of a man’s mind. Prince Verity used the Skill in such a way to fog the minds of the Red Ship Raiders. He could convince a captain that a coming storm was of no concern, or instill fear into a soldier’s heart. The Skill can be used to magnify the importance of pain, anger, fear, or joy. In doing so it is possible to manipulate a man’s actions. One exceptionally strong in the magic could burn a command into a man’s mind, or even particular emotions. Verity once Skill-commanded me to come to him in the mountains. The pull of that command was so strong that I could do nothing but obey it, even as my heart yearned to search for Molly or exact my vengeance on Regal. My father used the Skill to instill fanatical loyalty to him in Galen, who later became the Skillmaster at Buckkeep. Galen, at one time, used that magic against me. _

    A crisp autumn became a cold winter. The sea, which had borne the raiders and usually moderated the climate along the coast, seemed to have betrayed the land yet again, for it was a sharp and biting cold on some days that seemed to pierce through flesh and burrow into bone. Fitz dreaded those days the most, because his stolen moments with the Fool would by necessity be brief. The only solace for the Fool was in Fitz’s arms, and the Fool continued to go to him whenever he could. They could not risk being seen together in the keep, but to sneak outside wasn't comfortable for long. The Fool was too recognizable to be taken to an inn in Buckkeep town, and Fitz did not doubt for a moment that Chade had spies in every place imaginable. He cherished their moments together all the same, and he lived for those moments of sweetness. For as long as they were together on these occasions, they drank in each other’s presence, but never did their affections pass the level of that first jaunt to the beach. Part of it came from the paralyzing cold, which the Fool only endured because it was the only way to spend time with his love, but the rest of it came from an understanding that they would have the rest of their lives to get drunk off of each other, and it was that solid presence in each other’s lives that was the real treasure.

    Fitz’s time on Galen's towertop was also made more unpleasant by the cold, but that was not a thing that he had the luxury to think much on. As the weeks and months passed, Fitz began to see his days with Galen as a time separate from the rest. He was plunged into a world where it was a privilege to stand barefoot in the icy wind, awaiting each blow or lash that might fall and accepting each unflinching. On the first occasion this subject had been broached to the Fool, he had stared with abject horror at the other boy. He had warned Fitz against pursuing this magic, and to be helpless against Galen’s slow whittling away of Fitz’s consciousness and the already little self-worth he had made the Fool sick. He tried to express the depths of his despair to Fitz, who only replied that he hated Galen, but he still strove to be seen as something more than the waste of life that Galen surely saw him as. When their company had shrunk to only eight, Fitz felt pride at having endured as long as he had, even though he was even lower than Serene in Galen's regard. He had done better than those who'd left, at least, and he would prove himself worthy of Galen's tutelage.

    By the time the training had reached its highest point--its lowest, as far as the Fool was concerned--he refused to speak of the matter. If the Skill training was addressed in conversation, the Fool would change the subject, the glass look behind his pale eyes letting Fitz know that he did not wish to discuss it, unless it was on matters of stopping the training. Even when King Shrewd mentioned the Skill, the Fool’s answers were short and succinct. He began to look at Verity with a profound sadness, wondering if he too had been so abused by Galen. It was a troubling thought.

    More than three months after their training began, Galen finally began to introduce his students to the Skill. Fitz felt a fierce pride then, because where his classmates struggled, he excelled. Each small exercise they were given came to him almost as naturally as breathing. It was as though a candle had been lit in the darkness, and the light was just for him. Where the others stumbled blindly, he found his way with ease. With every task he mastered, he felt his confidence grow. When Galen touched his mind with the Skill, Fitz danced around his attempts to know his secrets, and hid carefully all thoughts of Chade, the Fool, and Smithy. He hid Molly, Dirk, and Kerry too, and so many other little things. In doing that, he felt that he grew more comfortable with his Skill. Though he noticed the lurking fear in Galen's eyes, he disregarded it in his eagerness to show that he was worthy. Whatever beatings or harsh words he was dealt, he took them. He knew that he could Skill. 

    That was the one time the Fool was willing to listen when Fitz spoke of his time with Galen. With the possibility of beating the Skillmaster, the Fool thought that perhaps the sense of dread he had regarding these lessons would not come to pass. He had worried for months that the Skill training would break Fitz, and indeed it was entirely possible that the Catalyst could be killed even before he had started. Upon hearing how far ahead of the others he was, however, the Prophet reconsidered the words. Yes, it was possible that the Catalyst could be killed. But Fitz was the strongest person he knew, and he doubted that he would fail so early. More importantly, Fitz began to see himself as something more than just the Bastard: he was a man with a gift. Even if he did not realize he was doing it, his sense of self was anchored in the fact that he was gifted in the Skill. No punishment could distract him from that, and no hateful looks from his classmates could deter him.

    Until the day his and Galen's minds met fully for the first time.

    Fitz regretted not having seen it coming. The moment his mind was vulnerable, Galen plunged forward. He was reckless in his attack, and the force of it felt like fire burning through Fitz's mind. Fitz reeled with the shock of the blow, but it was a mental one rather than physical. He felt disoriented, as though his very self had been scattered. Meanwhile, Galen was an angry storm, flinging his thoughts and memories asunder carelessly in his search for whatever was the source of Fitz's power. His privacy and his thoughts were ransacked, and his alarm at that was enough to bring Fitz back into himself. He rallied and then with the Skill, surged forward to grapple with Galen's mind, wrestling him away from the threads of himself and with a strength Fitz suddenly knew to be greater than Galen's own, he forced the Skillmaster back and felt Galen's acrid fear. He felt dizzy with his triumph, and he knew a moment of joy at his own victory.

    It had been a mistake to be so distracted.

    The allure of the Skill took him then, and Fitz felt himself swept into the current of euphoria that he had only barely sensed at the edges of his awareness before.

    That had been the advantage that Galen needed. He struck Fitz then, a hard and closed-fisted blow that toppled him to the ground. Fitz could hardly feel it. In his fear-fueled rage, Galen struck at him again and again with fists and booted feet. The stones scraped at Fitz's skin, and the blows came like raindrops. Then there was a hand closing around his throat, and Galen's Skill besieged his mind once again. Fitz floundered then, still caught in Skill current that blanketed him and threatened to sweep him away. Somehow, he managed to mount a defense, but every feeble wall that he managed to erect was toppled with the force of Galen's Skill.

    Galen ripped through his mind, clawing at the tapestries of memories and the webs of thought with razor sharp claws. It was agony. It was worse than the injuries that broke his body. Where those had failed to alarm him, the attack on his mind sent fear leaping to his throat. He struggled then, desperately trying to reassemble his defenses. They tumbled one after the other. Terror gripped him as Galen delved deeper into his mind and, in a panic, Fitz abandoned his walls and turned his Skill not on Galen, but upon himself. He went inside of himself, and he found all of those hidden things that Galen could not see. Having been the most recent, the damning memories of the Fool and he entangled on the beach, hidden in the trees, on his bed, all flooded to him at once and he sensed Galen's attention shift.

    The past memories of himself and Fitz trickled through the Fool’s mind, but they were laced with an edge of danger and terror that sent a cold feeling of foreboding through the Fool. Something was wrong, and the cold was soon replaced with a heat so strong it nearly burned. The Fool closed his eyes to try to shut it out, but it rose scorching behind his eyelids and threatened to take his entire mind. The Fool struggled to push it away, and in doing so he felt himself disconnect from the images of the past times with his lover. When the agonizing rush had passed, the Fool opened his eyes. He could still recall everything that had occurred between himself and Fitz, but the thread that seemed to anchor those memories in both of their minds was gone. They were the Fool’s memories now, and his alone. He did not know what had happened to Fitz, nor if he still had his own individual memories, only that he no longer got that constant hum of shared experience.

    Distantly, Fitz felt his body struggling to draw breath. Galen leaped upon the memories, and as fast as Galen could peruse them, Fitz wielded his Skill to change them. He knew that if those memories were found, there would be no hope for him or for the Fool. Galen would go to Shrewd with his knowledge, and they would both be shamed and executed. As he was Skilling against himself, he met with no resistance and he had hardly any time to mourn. The Fool and he had been friends. The best of friends. They'd played on the beach, and talked, and shared jests about everything. To think of being anything more with the Fool would have been unthinkable-- such love between two men was wrong .It was Molly whom he loved all this time, with a boy's longing and admiration. 

    Before the Fool could stand, a final image drove its way into his mind with such force that it pressed down on his lungs and robbed him of breath: the image of red skirts floating on the wind, and a woman’s smile below shining eyes.

    When he was done, Fitz was left with a heartache that made him choke, tears stream from his eyes, but he had no idea why.

    "Pathetic bastard," Galen sneered, releasing Fitz's throat. "Die!"

    He commanded it, and Fitz felt it. It echoed all the way down into his soul. His physical body was so full of hurts that he could not begin to assess just how badly he'd been damaged. Overshadowing all of that, though, was his knowledge that he had failed. He was worthless. His spirit plunged into despair and guilt that was crushing with its weight. Dimly, he heard Galen lecturing the students about his failures. Yes, he was disgusting. He had been weak. He had failed to resist the pull of the Skill. Worse than that was the pain he could not identify, that felt like loss and heartbreak.

    It was Smithy who convinced him to live, or at least, not to actively destroy himself. Smithy's love for him had held him like a physical hand on his shoulder pleading and begging for him not to die. Not to give up on their bond. Smithy howled with despair when he inched closer toward the wall, and rejoiced when Fitz stayed still. And so, with the moon high in the sky, Fitz lay on the cold tower top and stared bleakly at the wall. He did not deserve to live, but he could not take himself from Smithy either. Tears tracked down his cheeks, but he lacked the breath and energy to sob. He choked and mourned whatever it was that he had lost, even as he hated himself for his very existence. He wanted so badly to die.

    He shut his eyes.

    It was there that the Fool found him, but he lacked the strength to move him anywhere. Smithy had led the way to his master, and the Fool had left the dog with Fitz while he ran to get Burrich. As much as Fitz loathed him sometimes, and as much as the Fool blamed him for his Catalyst’s past hurts, he was strong and he cared about Fitz. The words fell from his mouth in an urgent stream, but as soon as Burrich heard the word, “Skill,” he took off, racing up to the Queen’s Garden. The Fool followed and was relieved to see that the only movement Fitz had made in his absence was to pull Smithy closer to him. Burrich gave the dog a brief glance, but his priority was on the boy. He picked Fitz up and held him as though he were no older than when they had first met, and the Fool trudged behind him with a whimpering Smithy in his arms. 

    When they reached the stablemaster’s chambers, Burrich laid Fitz down on his bed and sank into his chair by the hearth. The Fool sat against the door, and Smithy jumped on the bed to burrow beneath Fitz’s arm. No one spoke. Burrich watched the flames with a glare nearly as hot in his eyes, and the Fool watched Fitz and tried not to let the full range of his concern show.

    Fitz awoke to night, and to the crackle of flames from Burrich's hearth. For one too-brief moment, he was aware only of the fact that he was warm and that he was surrounded by the familiar smells of the stables. Then the pain of his injuries crashed down on him and made him flinch when he drew breath. He opened his eyes and tried to investigate the bandaging around his ribs, but was thwarted by the splints on two of his fingers. He stared at them uncomprehendingly. Yes, that was right, he had failed and been punished. The weight of those memories came back in force as a crushing despair rather than as a narrative of what had come to pass. He made a sound like an aborted sob. 

    Burrich turned his head from the flames to his charge at the sound. The boy had been badly hurt when the Fool had found him, and for one brief moment Burrich had thought the damned Skillmaster had killed him. As it was, he was prepared to pay Galen back in kind for what he had done. He rose to pour a cup of brandy for the pain. The bottle that was open on the table was half-empty, the cloths beside it soaked with both the alcohol and Fitz's blood; it had taken nearly an hour to clean his wounds. What worried Burrich most was that Fitz had not even flinched at the sting of alcohol-soaked cuts. He wondered how far gone he had been.

    The Fool was at Fitz's side before Burrich's head had fully turned. He had taken notice the moment Fitz had opened his eyes, and he darted over to take the other boy's hand, though not in too intimate a manner. "Fitz?" he asked in low voice, making sure that whatever Galen had done to him had at least left him with some semblance of a mind.

    Fitz stared at the Fool, who looked much like a ghost in the dim light. He could not have said why, but for some reason, the sight of his friend made tears well in his eyes and a bubble of pain swell in his chest. "I'm sorry," Fitz said, and the force of his emotion made the words rough. "I'm sorry," he said again, and then again. The sourceless guilt and sadness felt as heavy as stone, and no matter how much he apologized, he was sure that it would never be enough for whatever he had done.

    A frown stole over the Fool's face as he knelt beside the bed. Fitz had done nothing wrong, at least not to them. How much guilt had Galen imprinted on him? "Fitz, wh--"

    "It's not you that should be sorry," Burrich grunted, reaching over the Fool to help Fitz up with one arm. He held onto him and held out the brandy with the other. "Drink. Then tell me what happened."

    Fitz drank without question. The brandy was sweet, and it burnt doing down. After a couple of sips, he turned his head away. What had happened? "There was a test, and I failed it," Fitz explained. His brow furrowed as he realized that he did not know exactly what the test had been. "I wasn't able to do what he asked, so Galen punished me."

    Burrich hand clenched, and if he had not put the brandy down before Fitz had begun speaking, he most likely would have cracked the mug. "He nearly killed you, boy!"

    The Fool spoke much softer than Burrich. Yelling was distasteful to him in the best of times, and the Fool did not think Fitz would appreciate it just having nearly died. "But you said you were doing really well at the Skill. What did he want you to do?”

    Fitz grimaced. "I don't know exactly, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't master myself, and I failed..." Shame and self-loathing made him look away from Burrich and the Fool to stare instead at the blanket. "It doesn't matter what he did. I deserved it. He should have killed me." A flash of his desperate crawling toward the wall came to his mind, and Fitz wished that he hadn't stopped.

    Burrich stiffened with an angry inhale. He set his jaw, and every tendon in his body stood out in rage. Wordlessly, he went over to the peg beside the fireplace where he kept his cloak and yanked it down nearly violently. He met Fitz's eyes, and though they blazed with anger, none of that anger was for the boy. "Don't you ever say that. Never again." He force from his slamming of the door was enough to ruffle the Fool's hair, and the sound was deafening.

    The Fool had let out a noise of fear when Fitz had spoken of wanting to die, and he subconsciously ducked away as Burrich swept past him. When the ringing in his ears died down, he looked up at Fitz. "But you  _ didn't _ deserve it," he insisted. "I know how hard you were working at it; you were Galen's best student, he's just terrible." Despite his aversion to violence, he found himself wishing that Galen got exactly what he deserved.

    Fitz took a short breath-- it was hard to take a deeper one without his ribs protesting. He knew that he'd angered Burrich with his words, but he could not summon enough interest to know why. Stronger was the urge to defend Galen's actions. "He isn't, it wasn't his fault. It was mine for not being able to learn," Fitz insisted to the Fool, but he found himself unable to go on when he brought his gaze back up to look at the pale boy. The tide of his remorse surged again, and it left behind it a hollow feeling of loss that stripped his words away. He did not know why. Was it because he'd shamed himself before Galen and the students, and because he'd never truly learn to Skill? That was there in the hopelessness that weighed his heart and the knowledge of how pathetic he'd been. It did not fit with that sadness though. "I'm sorry," Fitz said again, because it was the only thing he knew to do.

    Tentatively, the Fool put a hand on Fitz's cheek. "It isn't your fault, stop it. Everyone knows how he feels about you. He was just waiting for an opportunity to try to hurt you." He bit his lip in thought. "I'm glad you're alive," he whispered.

    Fitz disagreed, but he did not say those words to the Fool. The Fool's hand was cold against his skin, and Fitz felt a shiver go through him at the touch. He had to try one more time. His sentences were short, with the limited breath he could draw. "If I told you that I'd been doing well with the Skill, I must have lied. I've been hopeless. I don't understand anything. Galen was right to be frustrated with me. I've no right to his teachings. There's a reason the Skill is not taught to bastards."

    The Fool himself was frustrated with Fitz, but he reminded himself that it was not his fault that his thinking was momentarily addled. He tried a different approach. "You remember what you said, don't you?" He sat back, moving his hand from Fitz's cheek to his arm. "When we went to our spot in the trees, you said that you felt like a new man, because you could Skill so much better than everyone in your class. It doesn't matter that you're a ba--" By Eda, he hated that word. "Your blood doesn't matter. You're you. And you're good at whatever you set your mind to, especially if you were already gifted in it."

    Fitz accepted the touch; the Fool had always been a tactile creature. He found it harder to accept the Fool's words, because the kindness in them was very much undeserved. Hearing how well the Fool spoke of him made his shapeless guilt rise up to settle as a lump in his throat. He shook his head in denial. "Thank you, Fool, but I know my own failings, and I don't know what you're talking about. It's kind of you to say that, but I don't remember saying those things to you. I've always lacked ability with the Skill."

    The Fool shook his head frantically. No, this was not right. This was not Fitz at all. He was not just denying that he had said the words in order to save his own skin, he truly did not remember. It was almost as if Galen had knocked all memories of being gifted out of Fitz. He had to know what else was gone. "What... _ do _ you remember saying to me?"

    Fitz frowned. That was an odd question to ask, but the Fool was an odd person and so he humoured him. He searched his memory for their conversations, but could find nothing specific beyond the usual pleasantries between friends. "I can't recall exactly. True, we've crossed paths several times during my training... but I can think of no reason for me to lie to you like that. I'm sorry," Fitz said. He did feel achingly sorry toward the Fool.

    The Fool 's eyes widened. He studied Fitz's face for some sign--any sign--of a lie to protect them both within the Keep, but he only saw confusion and tiredness. Slowly, his hand dropped from Fitz's arm and he pulled it into his lap. There was no word strong enough for the despair he felt, but it was for the best. Fitz was free to pursue Molly now, and there would be no risk to them being seen together. He nodded. "I simply wanted to make sure that you didn't invent any conversations," he said, forcing half a smile onto his lips. It felt dead on the inside. "You never know with head injuries."

    Fitz looked at the Fool's smile and couldn't bring himself to answer it. He understood the Fool's habitual levity, but it had no place in the darkness that had claimed his spirit. It did not seem to agree well with the Fool either, who, to Fitz's eye, seemed to be struggling to affect it. He knew he'd done something to hurt him, and that knowledge compounded his self-hatred. Fitz looked away from him. Grimly, he thought it would have been better if Galen had succeeded in breaking his skull. "I'm sorry," he said again.

    The Fool sighed, and the grin dropped. "Stop saying that. You've nothing to be sorry for and besides, I've already forgiven you for whatever you think you did."

    "You're a better friend than I deserve," Fitz said.

    The Fool bit his tongue so he could think of the right thing to say before he answered. "You deserve many things," he said at length, "and the treatment Galen gave you was not one such thing."

    Fitz understood that the Fool believed that, but could not for the life of him see why. He had been an awful student with no self-control, no discipline, and no talent for the magic. Of course Galen would have made an example of him. "Thank you for saying that," Fitz replied. It was not the Fool's fault that Fitz had failed so miserably with his training, and he was kind to try to console him, even if the effort was useless. Fitz looked at him again and a bit of gratitude appeared like the light of a single firefly in the blackness. "You're my dearest friend, Fool."

    The Fool dropped his eyes to the side. What could he say to that? Of course Fitz was his dearest friend, but to stop the statement there would probably destroy him. Instead he nodded and rose. "I know." He looked towards the door. "Do you need help back to your chambers?"

    "I'm not sure that I can stand," Fitz confessed, feeling ashamed of his weakness. "I should, though. Burrich will want his bed." He hadn't been able to make it to the wall. If he had been able to, he would have jumped. Even now, the thought was tempting. 

    "I can hold you up, you just need to be able to move your legs," said the Fool, though he was not quite sure about all the stairs.

    It seemed like too much effort. Everything hurt, and so did his heart. Fitz didn't think that he ever wanted to move again. He thought of all of the little things he had secreted away: knives, poisons, and other tools of the assassin's art. It would be very easy to use them. He wanted to, and something inside of him urged him to do it. It would be for the best. Beside him, Smithy stirred and whined, looking up at him balefully. That was right, he shouldn't. Smithy's trust and love for him radiated through their shared bond, and Fitz knew he did not deserve it after how often he'd left the growing pup alone. Could he betray that trust by destroying himself? Perhaps Smithy would be better off. He felt Smithy's fervent denial of that and looked away. Realizing that he'd kept the Fool waiting for an answer, Fitz spoke: "Alright, then."

    The Fool took a step forward and held out a hand. He concentrated on preparation for Fitz to make contact with him, because if he reacted even slightly, the other boy would notice. They were just friends. It was just as if a man was helping a fellow soldier to stand.

    Fitz accepted the Fool's cool hand and rose to his feet. The pain that lanced through his ribs made him see stars, and he held his breath while he waited for them to clear.

    Instinctively, the Fool put his arm around Fitz, just above the waist, to keep him from collapsing. He looked as if he might have fallen down otherwise. "We'll go as slowly as you need to," he said, proud of himself for keeping his voice from trembling.

    "Thank you," Fitz said. He put his arm across the Fool's shoulders to hold himself up, gratefully letting the Fool take some of his weight. He took a few shallow breaths before he felt ready to cross the room, and the stairs down from Burrich's loft were a challenge.

    It took the two of them nearly an hour to get back to Fitz's chambers, both because Fitz needed to stop to breathe and because the Fool was not as adept at taking his full weight as he had thought. Each time they paused and the Fool allowed himself to break the intense concentration he had been holding, he caught a trace of the scent that was purely Fitz. It was wrong for him to think of such things at such a time, but all the Fool wanted was to lay next to Fitz and soothe his hurts away with gentle kisses. Even when they finally got back to Fitz's room and the Fool sat him down on the bed, he lingered a moment too long before standing. If he had known, two days before, that the goodnight kiss they had shared would be their last, he would not have let it be so fleeting. He looked away--he had been staring at Fitz--and tried to pretend that he had been assessing his condition. "You're alright now," he said, somewhere between a question and a reassurance.

    Fitz sat with relief. The walk had been a long blur to him. He had shut his eyes to allay his dizziness, but opened them again at the Fool's words. The Fool looked even paler in the darkness than he normally did. He didn't address the statement. "Could you light a few candles, please?"

    "As your humble servant, I am obliged to do your bidding." The sarcasm was a better reaction than the alternative, which was 'Of course. I would do anything for you.' The Fool could not help but think that this was his fault. He had fallen in love with Fitz and so pulled him away from the Prophecies, thus causing Fate to have to conceive some way to ensure that the Catalyst returned to the intended Path. He thought about this as he lit the candles despite his quip, and his sigh nearly extinguished one

    The light was welcome, and Fitz steeled himself before maneuvering himself over to his clothing chest. It took some time, but from their many hiding places, Fitz retrieved his small collection of assassin's tools. Several small knives, easily hidden up a sleeve. A very thin dagger that could be slid into a seam. The larger dagger from his boot. The waxed paper packets full of various powders. The small glass vial full of a clear, tasteless poison. As he held each one in his hands, he felt the pull to use it. It was an urge stronger than he'd ever known, but somehow he managed to bundle all of those things up into an old shirt of his and press the bundle into the Fool's hands. 

    The Fool stared at Fitz as he disarmed himself and accepted the bundle with some reluctance. "I don't want this," he said quietly. Death was in his hands, and he felt tainted for having taken it without question.

    “You don't have to take it," Fitz said, lowering himself down onto the bed again. His legs had begun to shake with the effort of keeping him upright. A part of him wished the Fool wouldn't. Smithy reminded him that that was wrong. Reluctantly, Fitz found the small compartment in his headboard and took out yet another blade that he'd neglected to add to the pile. It felt awful to give up those things that could end his misery. It was like resigning himself to suffer his despair. He had not realized how reassuring it had been to know that he could end things if he chose to until that moment. He offered the small, efficient thing to the Fool with a grimace. If the Fool had simply left at that, it would have been a useless gesture that would have hurt the Fool. Now at least, if the Fool chose to take the things, Fitz wouldn't have been essentially lying. "If you leave these things with King Shrewd, he'll most likely understand. I wouldn't like for him to know, but I'd rather that than make you uncomfortable." King Shrewd probably already knew about his failure from Galen. Fitz wondered whether the old king would finally decide that he was useless.

    The Fool stared at the objects in his hands and tried to imagine Fitz using even one of them on himself. The images rose to his mind of a face slack with death, dark and congealed blood, a decimated wrist hanging off a bed...he shook his head, blinking tears out of his eyes. "I'll take them," he decided. After all, he would be preventing death, not dealing it. "Do you..." He faltered, but finished the question anyways. "Do you want me to stay for the night? After I move these, I mean."

    Fitz looked at the Fool. Despite his faltering, Fitz sensed that the Fool had offered honestly and he wasn't sure what to do with the knowledge that the Fool cared that much. It prodded at something painful inside of him. He wasn't deserving of the Fool's friendship. "I'm not very good company," Fitz said, neither accepting nor declining.

    The Fool took that as a refusal and ducked his head, ashamed. "Alright," he said. "Try to sleep well, FitzChivalry. And...I hope to see you tomorrow." Alive. He made sure Fitz knew what he meant as he turned to go

    Fitz knew a moment of indecision. He truly didn't want to be alone with his thoughts. He could ask the Fool to stay, like he had his first night at Buckkeep, and he knew that the Fool would agree. Didn't he deserve to reflect on what he'd done, though? If the Fool stayed, would he look the way he had in Burrich's loft, with pain hidden behind his jester's smile? Could Fitz look on that expression without echoing that pain? "Good night, Fool," Fitz said. "Thank you."

    "Good night, Fitz," the Fool sighed. When he returned to his own chambers, he put the package of death as far away from his bed as possible. As he tried to fall asleep, the Fool thought he might cry, but in the instance in which he could truly express what he had lost, he found his eyes strangely dry. He stared at the wall so long that he did not even remember falling asleep.

 

_     “Is it worse for two people to yearn for something they can never have, or for one person to yearn for something that once was while the other lives on in ignorance?” _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	23. On Commencement and Companionship - Suggestion

_ The Fool has, for the whole of my life, been an important figure both as friend and as Prophet--though I was reluctant to acknowledge the latter much of the time and, sadly, sometimes questioned the former. The most obvious ways in which he shaped my life are the times he has saved it--either from some enemy or from myself--but he has shaped it in more subtle ways as well: a gentle bit of mockery, a suggestion, or simply his presence have been enough to alter my actions.  _

_     I think that the best way he has changed my life has been in another role. In fact, many roles. The Fool is my friend always, but he is also my husband, my wife, my lover, and indeed such a part of me that I feel we must be part of a whole.  _

_     The ways that the Fool as Prophet guided me were sometimes painful for us both. What we have now, though, is nothing but good. _

 

    Fitz's mood was a bleak one for the days that followed his failure in the Queen's gardens. Two days he kept abed, lacking sufficient motivation to bother rising. Chade's secret passageway opened on the second night, but Fitz ignored it and it was closed when he woke the next morning. 

    Burrich, he could not ignore. The man came to him, seeming in an odd good cheer, and he checked over Fitz's wounds with practical efficiency and a spring to his step that Fitz could not comprehend. When he left, he took Smithy with him, and told Fitz that if he wished to see the pup, he would have to do so in the stables, because to be kept so long in Fitz's room was bad for the growth of the pup's muscles and the fresh air would do him good. Smithy whined at that, but Fitz assured him that it was fine. He knew that he was in no state to care for another living thing. 

    Eventually, though, he did join Burrich and Smithy in the stables, and he was reminded of his childhood spent doing small tasks and dogging the stable master's heels. Burrich had another stable boy now, but there was plenty of work to be shared. Fitz muddled through his light tasks in a daze, but he knew them too well for his black spirits to affect the quality of his work. 

    Though he could find no joy in anything at all, Smithy seemed to thrive in the stables. He relayed with enthusiasm, every bright and sharp-edged memory, and every sight or smell that caught his interest. Those reminders of the things that were good in the world and Smithy's unending love were the things that helped Fitz rise from his bed each morning, and eventually his depression settled into a dull haze instead of the raging storm that had made him long for death. He had failed with the Skill, but he was still able to do some things and perhaps that was for the best.

    It had been nearly a week and the only time the Fool had seen Fitz was when he was on the way to the stables. They had not spoken, but the Fool was acutely aware of Fitz's tools of trade every time he entered his room. They seemed to sit heavily in the corner, tugging at his consciousness. 

    The most frightening part of it was that the connection the Fool had with the implements of death was stronger than the one he had with their owner. The thread between Prophet and Catalyst had virtually disappeared, and the Fool found he could not sense Fitz at all. He had marked, however, that Fitz had resumed his normal tasks and the weapons were causing him to lose sleep. He decided to return them, and was waiting inside Fitz's room just shy of high noon, when he was due to return from the stables. He took a seat in front of the hearth, no longer comfortable on the bed.

    Fitz entered, and blinked when he saw the Fool. He was startled, but not surprised. The Fool had ways of appearing and disappearing with no regard for door latches, and Fitz felt that he should have gotten used to that by now. 

    "Fool," he greeted. For some reason, he felt a pang at seeing the other boy, but it was sadness mixed with relief. The Fool was looking tired, and Fitz noted the way his posture seemed to droop. It was unlike the Fool, and he felt a measure of concern.

    "Fitz," the Fool replied, but he did not rise as he normally did. "How are you? Have your duties improved your temperament?" He wanted to be sure Fitz was stable enough to be able to accept the tools he was going to give back to him.

    "Well enough," Fitz answered to both questions, coming to sit next to the Fool on the floor. "I should have come to find you. How are you? You look tired."

    The Fool picked the bundle up from beside him and dropped it unceremoniously onto Fitz's lap. "I didn't want these," he said. "And I still don't. But I kept them well enough for you, and my duty is done."

    Fitz looked down at the bundle on his lap with mixed feelings. He had managed to take back the simple, cleaner part of his life in the stables. The bundle seemed heavy, and he knew that he could not avoid Chade forever. 

    "You didn't have to take them," Fitz grumbled, feeling a bit guilty for having imposed upon the Fool when he'd clearly resented the task. "How did you get in here anyway?" He challenged, though he doubted that he would get a straight answer.

    "How did  _ you _ get in here?" the Fool challenged. "How do you ever get in here? I walked through the door," the Fool said dryly. Fitz had never much cared about how he had come in before, more that he was there. It was a sore spot that his presence no longer invoked that same thought.

    Fitz snorted. "Well, I wouldn't have been surprised if you'd told me that you came in through the window." Realizing that he was being a bit irritable, Fitz decided to let the matter drop. "Thank you for keeping these when you didn't want to," he said, gesturing at the package. He wondered how Chade would react if he told him that he had entrusted the things to the Fool. Well, Chade probably knew anyway. Fitz was not looking forward to that conversation, or to being reprimanded for ignoring his summons.

    "You're welcome," said the Fool, ignoring the other comment. He could not long stay bitter towards Fitz, however, so he sighed and looked aside. "I am glad you've been able to resume your other tasks."

    Fitz looked away. "Well, I need to find something else to do with myself now that I've failed at the Skill. Perhaps I'll ask to learn how to care for the hawks." He had never given them much thought before, and birds were duller to his Witsense than other creatures. Still, why not? It was not as though it mattered much what he chose to do.

    "What do you mean? You're going back to the Skill lessons, are you not?" It was only natural. After all, since he had survived that which was the greatest danger to him, it would make sense to return and finish the job. Besides, after all that Burrich had gone through for him, and the natural gift he had, it would be a waste not to.

    Fitz gave the Fool an odd look. "Of course not. I failed, Fool. Galen will never have me back."

    The Fool rolled his eyes. "I think he might make an exception."

    "Why would he do that, and why should I go?" Fitz scowled. "It won't accomplish anything but waste his time and humiliate me. I'd be proving him right again about why a bastard has no place learning the Skill."

    "I imagine Burrich will have something different to say on the matter," the Fool muttered in an aside. Fitz really needed to learn to talk to people. He regarded the tools of the trade once more. "How long do you think it will be until you have to use those?"

    Fitz shrugged. "I don't know. It's not really my job to wonder those things. I only have to do what I'm told."

    The Fool grimaced. "If you were told to...gift me...would you?"

    Fitz's eyes widened at the unexpected question, and his lips parted in shock. He wanted to reply in the negative immediately, but felt that a serious question at least deserved some thought. He shut his mouth again, blinking rapidly. The Fool was his closest friend. Someone he cared about deeply. If King Shrewd were to order such a terrible thing, would he be able to do it? The thought alone was devastating. Fitz swallowed, and his silence stretched. His mind resisted even considering it.

    "I couldn't do it," Fitz said at last. He imagined Chade standing before him ordering him to do it, and thought of the fruit knife in the mantle. "But why would King Shrewd want to be rid of you? He clearly favours you, so don't be ridiculous."

    He had hesitated. Fitz had hesitated and the blood rushing past the Fool’s ears nearly deafened him. When he read the words 'I couldn't' from Fitz's lips the panic left him. He forced himself to smile. "He wouldn't want to," he said, cocking his head. "I just wanted to know if you would."

    Fitz glared, hating that the Fool could smile after asking such an outrageous question. It had been a painful one to consider. "Yes, well, now you know." Fitz rose to put the tools of his trade onto his bed. He would need to put everything back into its proper place, but he could do it later. "I couldn't do it, and then we'd probably both be done in our sleeps." He wondered if Chade would be the one to finish him, or if Shrewd had other assassins lurking in the Keep.

    The smile dropped. "Well...come to think of it, I would rather have you kill me than have you killed." It did not usually happen that way, and without the Prophet the Catalyst would have to Break Time on his own. The Fool did not even know if that was possible, but it was better than Fitz dying.

    Fitz continued to scowl darkly at the Fool while he came to sit down again. The Fool might have preferred that option, but Fitz did not. "It isn't going to happen, so could we stop talking about it? Neither of us is going to die.”

    The Fool shrugged. "We all die eventually," he pointed out. "But you are right. Neither of us will die soon. That is what you meant, is it not?"

    "You're cheery today," Fitz commented, though he knew that he was hardly one to talk. "Why all of this talk about death and dying? You know, some in the keep would take that as an ill omen." The jest fell a bit flat, even to Fitz's ears.

    The Fool glared at Fitz. "That was poorly conceived," he pointed out.

    "Yes, I know..." Fitz sighed. He gave the Fool an apologetic look. "Forgive me. I meant nothing by it, honestly.

    The Fool echoed his sigh and laid on his back, turning to look at the flames. "So then, if you are not going to return to the Queen's Garden, what shall you do in your spare time?"

    Fitz could hardly recall the last time he had had any free time at all. Galen's lessons had taken months of his life, and all for nothing. What would he do? "I don't know," he admitted. "Working with Burrich in the stables is fine."

    "He only needs you in the morning," said the Fool matter-of-factly. "And besides, I recall hearing that someone else was free in the evenings. Though I suppose the level of excitement you might find in town does not even hold a candle to the moping you do around here."

    "I'm not moping," Fitz frowned. "I just haven't felt much like doing anything. What are you talking about?"

    The Fool sat up, rolling his eyes. "Honestly, your head must be filled with beeswax," he grumbled.

    Fitz huffed in exasperation. "Would you please speak plainly?" 1:01

    The Fool "I could, but you use your brain precious little in any case." The Fool tapped the side of Fitz's head. "If I ceased speaking the way I do, why you'd have no reason to keep your  _ wicks _ about you." It was already painful enough to send Fitz to Molly, but the level of pun he had been forced to subject them both to was far worse.

    Fitz made a face and caught the Fool's hand after the tap on the head. "You're ridiculous," he said, dropping the Fool's hand. "Candles, wax, wicks. Do you mean that I should see Molly?" The thought did have some appeal, and he thought that perhaps seeing her would help him regain some sense of his own life beyond the bleakness that had overshadowed it of late.

    "Amazing. There is a flame of knowledge in there." The Fool stood, his work having been completed. "Good day, and good luck, FitzChivalry."

    Fitz felt a bit disappointed that the Fool was leaving so soon. As he watched the Fool stand, he was again struck by the lack of his usual energy. "You never told me how you are," Fitz pointed out.

    The Fool laughed. "Fitz, you don't even know what I am! I doubt you could handle the how of it!" And with that he left, without taking the backwards glance that so strongly pulled at him.

    Fitz sighed at the Fool's behaviour, but was unsurprised by his strangeness. In the quiet of his room, he supposed that the other boy had been right. Seeing Molly sounded like a fine idea, and even though most feelings felt muted and grey, now that the idea had been planted, he found himself almost eager. A vision of Molly in her red skirts, smiling at him as they walked side-by-side flashed through his mind and he found his purse to count his coins. He had not much, but enough to buy a few things. He would bring her a gift to apologize for having gone so long without calling on her, and perhaps they could share a meal. 

    With a new purpose for his afternoon, Fitz set off for town. It was slow going. Slower than ever he had gone before, and he felt that he walked like an old man with his injuries. He made it without incident, though, and even managed to find a small silver hair pin that he thought would look pretty in Molly's dark hair. It had cost him more than he had planned to spend, but he thought that it was worth it. He had enough coin to feign being a customer if her father were in the shop, and he walked in doing his best to conceal his nervousness.

    Molly had not had many customers all day, and she brightened at the prospect of making enough money to cover the day's costs. Her eyes widened upon seeing Newboy, but she could not appear too excited in front of her father, who was sitting in a tall chair behind the counter. She would not much be able to talk to Newboy in his presence, but she had an idea.

    "Father, I'm going to take inventory in the back," she told him, and promptly disappeared into the private part of the shop. Even if Newboy feigned not being able to find what he was looking for, it should only have taken a few minutes to exit the shop and come around the back door, which Molly unbolted and left a mere few centimetres ajar.

    Fitz tried his best not to let his eyes follow Molly's departure, but he felt a tingle of excitement as she disappeared into the back. He hastily found a couple of beeswax tapers such as he had bought the last time, and all but fled the shop with them in his hand once he had paid. As the door shut behind him, he looked left and right. Would Molly come out to see him, or would she remain inside? He decided to go around to the back of the shop just in case--even if she came out, he would surely cross paths with her. 

    As he emerged from the narrow alleyway and stepped around a rain barrel, he saw that the back door of the chandlery had been left ajar. Cautiously, he approached and then nudged it further open. "Molly?" he asked, just barely breathing her name.

    Molly took the two steps from the box of candles she was pretending to count (she kept a very strict tally of all they had at all times and had no need to truly count) over to the door. "Hello, Newboy," she whispered. "A moment, please. I'll join you shortly." After peeking out to make sure her father would not come to check on her--as he was now leaned back against the wall with his eyes closed, this was unlikely--she grabbed a small bundle of candles and slipped out of the door to join Newboy.

    Fitz waited, feeling oddly nervous as he clutched the tapers in one hand and felt the small hairpin tucked into his pocket with the other. Molly was a practical girl, would she appreciate such a gift? Perhaps he should have brought her some good smelling herbs for her candles instead. Before he could curse himself for being an idiot, Molly stepped outside and Fitz was struck again by how much she had changed from when they had been children. She no longer kept her hair in braids, and it was as glossy as Sooty's coat after a good grooming. Skirts suited her very well, he thought, and she certainly had more of a woman's shape now. He tried not to let his eyes linger too long as he noticed the way the fabric of her shirt draped over her breasts and folded at the curve of her waist where it tucked into her skirt. He cleared his throat. 

    "Hello, Molly," he said, still keeping his voice down in case they were overheard. "You won't be in any trouble, will you?"

    Molly shook her head. "He won't find me, and if he does well, I can think quickly." She hoped this was true, for though he could no longer strike her, he could still torment her with words. A brief expression of worry crossed her features, but she smoothed it away. "Come, we should go somewhere to talk." She nodded practically and set off down the alley.

    Fitz nodded, allowing Molly to take the lead. He felt a spark of resentment toward Molly's father, and he cursed that the old man had never learned to appreciate how hard Molly worked to keep them fed. No matter how awful he was, Fitz knew that Molly would mourn her father when he did. He didn't deserve that love, in Fitz's opinion. He said none of that, of course, and kept quiet while he waited for Molly to let him know that it was safe to talk.

    It was difficult to find a place that was not so public that people would talk about seeing them together, but not so private that it would look like they were on a tryst to anyone who did happen to see. In the end, Molly led them down to the docks and sat off the side, her feet dangling just above the water.

    Fitz sat down next to her, admiring the way the wind played in her hair and the carefree way she sat on the old wooden dock. No court lady would have been caught dead doing such a thing, and they were not half as beautiful as she. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the pin, once again questioning whether it had been a wise choice. He held it out to her. "This is for you," he said, blushing faintly. "I thought the colour would look nice against your hair."

    "Oh...!" she exclaimed softly, setting her bundle down beside her and gingerly taking the pin. It was nicer than anything she owned. "This is...beautiful, Newboy. Thank you." She gathered her hair up into a twist and pinned it there, though it was not expertly done. She had neither the benefit of experience nor a mirror. Several strands straggled out of the pin to curl at the nape of her neck and hang just beside her face, but she smiled at Newboy nonetheless. "I have something for you too," she said, but she wondered if perhaps it would be pale in comparison to his gift.

    Fitz blushed a bit darker, and smiled to see her enjoying the present. "You're welcome. You didn't have to give me anything. I'm happy enough just to see you." It was true, in a way. At least, he knew that he should be happy. He did not know precisely when he'd realized it, but he knew with certainty that he loved Molly. Admired her. Adored her. The strength of this feeling surprised him after so long of feeling next to nothing, and it took his breath away.

    Newboy's bold words brought a tinge to Molly's cheeks, and she looked over at the bundle beside her to hide her face from him. Once she looked back and offered him the gift, the blush had subsided. "I thought you might like these. They aren't too sweet, but I find them wonderful to relax by. And...I thought some of them smelled like..." She trailed off. "Never mind."

    Fitz accepted the bundle, feeling awed that she had thought of him. He set it on his lap and opened it, careful not to let any of the candles escape. He brought one to his nose to smell it, and breathed deeply. She was right that the fragrance was not an overpowering one, and he was grateful for that. He'd noticed that since Smithy, his own senses seemed to be sharper--smell especially. The combination of lavender and mint was unexpectedly pleasant along with the smell of the beeswax itself. "They're wonderful," he said honestly. He tied the bundle carefully, adding the two tapers he'd bought to the bunch.

    "I'm glad you think so," Molly replied quietly, touched at how gentle he had been unwrapping the gift. "I'll be able to make more for you, when you run out." She gave him a small smile, suddenly feeling much more self-conscious than she ever had in front of him.

    Fitz set the bundle of candles down beside himself. "Thank you," he said, hardly believing that the object of his affection had given him such a marvellous gift. Molly was older than him, and so strong and beautiful. He forever felt like an awkward boy around her, and he sat a bit straighter, hoping that she might see him as a man. "I'm sorry that I haven't been to town lately. I hope that I'll be able to come more often now."

    "I'm sure you have your fair share of duties." Where Molly might have been bitter about this in earlier years, she now found she could accept it with a woman's knowledge of just how much effort life's responsibilities demanded. At least he had come down to see her at all. That was blessing enough for her.

    Fitz nodded and looked out at the water. He could not tell her of his lessons with Galen, nor could he tell her any of his other occupations. She believed him to be Fedwren's boy, he reminded himself, but how much of him was left after he had cut away all of the bits that made up FitzChivalry? He had no Keep gossip for her, isolated as he had been under Galen's instruction. He had not even spoken to Fedwren in months. 

    "A surprising number," he said regretfully. It occurred to him that he had hardly thought of Molly at all while he had been training in the Skill, and he felt a stab of guilt at that. How could he have put someone he loved so dearly out of his mind for months? "But tell me, how have you been?" Fitz asked, resolving to make up for lost time.

    Molly smiled then, something she found herself unable to stop doing in Newboy's company. "I have been well, mostly. Aside from the occasional disagreement with my father, all has gone well. My sales are increasing, and I've carved out quite the trade market among the other merchants. My candles are even being sent to Bingtown!"

    Fitz frowned in concern at the mention of Molly's father, but his frown melted away and was replaced by a smile at the rest of Molly's news. "That's fantastic," he congratulated wholeheartedly. He was happy to hear that Molly's efforts had been paying off. He knew the quality of her candles to be excellent and felt fiercely glad and proud that she was doing well for herself. "Your candles must be famous. Soon enough you'll have people asking to be taken on as your apprentice!" 

    "Oh! I hadn't even considered that!" Molly felt her cheeks heat again, but it was with pride and excitement this time. She had always imagined having to manage on her own once her father died, but it would be nice to share her knowledge with someone else. "That would be lovely."

    "I could help you to write your recipes down, if you wanted," Fitz offered. "And I'm sure that you'd be a wonderful teacher."

    "Perhaps I could hire you to do so, scribe's boy," Molly teased, giving Fitz a friendly nudge.

    Fitz blushed, acutely aware of the fact that Molly had just touched him. "After selling your candles to so many places, you could afford a far better scribe than me," he said, awkwardly. Never mind the fact that he was not truly a scribe's boy at all. "You wouldn't have to pay me at all, though, I would be glad to do it."

    Molly looked at him critically. "I'm certain you're selling yourself short. You'd make a wonderful scribe for anything I ask. And of course I would pay you. You have to make a living too, of course."

    Fitz was suddenly struck by the idea that their livings need not be separate at all, and he stared like an idiot before mastering himself and looking away. She probably saw him as a child still, so who was he to be creating idle fancies about marriage? "Suppose that I traded my services for your candles, then?" he asked, hoping that she did not notice his awkwardness.

    Molly's smile widened. "I think that's quite the idea, Newboy," she said, glad at the prospect of seeing him more often. "Consider this batch on the house, though." She still thought it was pale in comparison to the pin, but it was the least she could do.

    "Thank you," Fitz said again. "I'll bring my inks and pens with me next time," he smiled, and then remembered that he'd wanted to create an illustration of her mother's recipes so that she could have them without needing to learn her letters. He vowed that he would do it as soon as he returned to the keep. "We've a bargain, then," he said, extending his hand formally.

    Molly shook Newboy's hand, and she made sure she shook hard, just so he knew she was still stronger than him. But she offered a good-natured smile with it, and she held onto his hand for a moment too long, loosening her grip in those last moments.

    Fitz looked down at their joined hands, surprised--for no reason that he could discern--by the warmth of her hand in his. The force of her grip surprised him too, and he grinned at her. No matter what she wore, or how much she'd grown, she was still Nosebleed. And he could be Newboy. 

    As their hands slid apart, he wondered what it would be like to clasp hands with her as they walked through town the way he'd seen other couples do. He knew town would be dangerous for her, though, with her father like to hear any gossip that would arise. "Shall we sneak away to the beach next time?" Fitz asked, impulsively. "I could bring us some things for lunch."

    "I..." Was Newboy proposing what Molly thought he was? It was bold, it was brash, it was highly improper...and yet Molly found herself cherishing the idea. "Yes, I think that's a wonderful idea." She considered her father, and how she would get away from him. "Come at the end of the week, if you can. He always drinks more then, and I'll be able to stay longer."

    Fitz felt a smile spread across his face, and he felt it in his heart as well. For the first time in days, he thought that he might have something to look forward to in life. "The end of the week," Fitz confirmed. "Most of the people should be in town then too, so the beach will be quieter." He could hardly believe that she had agreed. Belatedly embarrassed by his own boldness, Fitz cleared his throat. "I suppose that I shouldn't keep you too long today, then, if you're supposedly doing inventory." He would have hated to be the cause of her father being angry with her.

    "Ah, yes," Molly agreed, rolling her eyes. "As if I would ever let myself become ignorant of my stock." She did stand, though. It was with some reluctance that she slipped the pin out of her hair, and she gave Newboy an apologetic look. "I don't want to risk having to lie about its origins," she explained regretfully.

    Fitz stood as well and gave her a chagrined smile. He had not thought about that when he had given the pin to her. "It's alright. I'm just glad that I could give it to you. It... It looks nice on you," He said, feeling his face heat as he fumbled out the compliment.

    Molly's blush returned, and she dropped her eyes. "Thank you, Newboy." She gave him an affectionate pat on the cheek, because she did not feel nearly bold enough to kiss him there, and briefly touched his arm as she started back towards the shop, to indicate that he should walk beside her.

    Fitz felt his heart leap. "You're welcome," he said and he followed Molly's lead, falling into place at her side and adjusting his stride so that their paces matched. His palms were sweating, and he was glad that they were not holding hands after all. He tried to find words to say, and he went with the first topic that came to mind. 

    "I've another dog now," Fitz said. "Smithy is his name. I could bring him with me to town if you'd like to meet him."

    "Oh?" Molly looked up at him with interest. "You were so good with Nosy, I'm sure Smithy will be just as loveable. I would very much like to meet him." If Newboy was that good with small animals, she wondered what he would be like with children, but then promptly put that thought from her mind. It was inconceivable.

    Fitz could not hold back a warm smile. "He's great. He'll be strong when he's fully grown, and his coat will be a bit bristly, but it's soft as anything now. I'm sure that he'll love you," Fitz said, and then blinked at his own choice of words. "Er," he continued, "That is, he's very friendly, and I'm certain that you'll get along."

    Molly laughed. "I knew what you meant, and I hope he does." She unintentionally lowered her voice on these last words, and to her surprise she found a deeper meaning behind them.

    "He will," Fitz said with certainty. Smithy would probably smell him all over when he went to see him in the stables, and demand to know all that he'd done. He wondered how Molly would feel if she knew about his magic, but he did not dare risk mentioning it.

    "Good." Molly came to a stop across the street from the alley that led to the back of her shop. She looked between it and Newboy uncomfortably and sighed. "I'm sorry...I should leave you here..."

    Fitz bobbed his head in a nod. "I suppose you're right. Good day to you, Molly. Thank you for coming out with me."

    "Good day to you, Newboy. Thank you for inviting me." She patted the pocket into which she had slipped the hairpin and smiled at him as she returned to her shop.

    Fitz watched her leave with some regret, wishing that they had been able to steal more than a few moments together. After months of being without her, being forced to part so soon felt unfair. He would see her again, though, at the end of the week. He promised himself that he would have the illustrated recipes then, and food for them to share as well. He hoped that Molly wouldn't be caught sneaking out. He gripped his small bundle tightly, and thought that he would light one of the candles that night while he worked on the illustrations. It had been a long time, he realized, since he'd felt so driven to do something. Spirits lifting for the first time in days, he started back toward the Keep.

 

_     “I think, if circumstances were less complicated between us, Molly and I could have been friends. She possesses a great many qualities I admire. As things happened, however, I doubt Fitz would have been comfortable with such a friendship between us, and I do not think Molly would have been keen on the idea either. I rest contented knowing that she made him happy and treated him well, and they were a fine match during the time they were together.” _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	24. On Commencement and Companionship - Providence

_ Chade used to dice with Shrewd of an evening. Chade never liked to discuss much of his past or his personal life except in some letters we exchanged in his later years. What I’ve gathered is that the two had a very good relationship, built on mutual respect. Shrewd might have frustrated Chade with his caution, and Chade’s ambition and recklessness might have taxed Shrewd, but for all that, they did not often come into conflict. _

_     One area in which I know they disagreed was the matter of the Fool’s gift of prophecy. Here it was Chade who was cautious and Shrewd who was- at least to Chade’s mind- reckless. Shrewd accepted the Fool into his court and into his confidence, and Chade was, I gather, appalled... _

 

    By the time the Fool heard the extent of what Galen planned to subject his students to, Fitz was already gone. The prospective coterie had left at the break of dawn, and the Fool had rushed to his window just in time to see the carriages leave. A cold dread settled at his stomach, and he felt he should have said something to Fitz--a warning or even a simple goodbye. He went down to Fitz's room to retrieve Smithy, but found that the dog was not there. Dismayed and having nothing else to do, the Fool went to Shrewd's chambers. Unless otherwise ordered, that was where he spent the next three days: uncharacteristically still by the corner of the hearth.

    Shrewd hardly looked up when the Fool entered. His presence had become as natural as the air he breathed, or perhaps the presence of a favoured pet. He was sitting with Chade, enjoying a rare morning of relaxation. They were taking turns at rolling dice, and though it hardly mattered, they made small bets to keep the game interesting. Shrewd kept a wary eye on Chade's hands; he wouldn't have put it past his half-brother to cheat just for the sake of doing so. The man was crafty, and he took great pleasure in his own cleverness. Shrewd didn't mind as long as Chade's ambition did not threaten to overtake his common sense. It hadn't so far, but complacence was a dangerous thing, and Shrewd did not overlook the amount of pleasure that Chade seemed to derive from his small schemes. He did not distrust Chade, though. He trusted him enough to school his sons, and now his bastard grandson. He trusted him enough to know all of the inner workings of court, and to do all of the quiet work that was sometimes necessary. It was not a lack of trust that made him cautious. It was only prudence. 

    "Hah..." Shrewd chucked to himself. "I believe that's my victory." He took the small pile of coppers that sat between them and he allowed himself to enjoy the small victory. "Another round?"

    Chade snorted as he watched Shrewd take up the coins. "Hardly victory when the game is based on pure luck." He nodded nevertheless and put three more coppers between them. His eyes drifted over to the Fool momentarily, and then he watched from the corner of his eye as the strange creature entered. The Fool had never failed to unnerve him, just a bit, and he couldn't quite fathom Shrewd's apparent trust for the boy.

    Where the Fool might have normally made a clever remark about the luck of any game being as weighted as its dice, he found that today he lacked the heart. He heaved a silent sigh and sat down, lifting his eyes to watch the two men play. If there had been flames in the hearth, he would have watched those: they were far more conducive to personal reflection.

    Shrewd looked down at Chade's roll and considered his own carefully before deciding to keep a pair of four's and re-roll the rest. He had been just about to roll when he heard a knock. He waited ample time for Chade to conceal himself in the shadows before granting entry. It was a page boy. They got younger all the time, it seemed, and the intimidated young thing seemed to be trying to say that Regal required his attention. Shrewd nearly scoffed at the impudence. The second prince daring to summon a king, and with a green page boy? "You may bring a reply to Prince Regal," Shrewd said. "I will meet him in the lesser audience chamber, and he can wait for me there. You're dismissed."

    Chade emerged from his hiding place once their visitor had gone, and he did not bother to conceal a scoff. "Your son grows bolder by the day. I suppose that he commands the sun to set when he wishes it, and then stomps his foot when it disobeys... You cannot mean to entertain his childish arrogance, surely."

    Shrewd rose from his seat. "I'm afraid that I must." He tossed the dice down for his final roll and watched them roll to a stop. "My victory again, I think... No, I fear that ignoring the boy or attempting to discipline him too harshly will only lead to resentment after all of the treason he suckled at his mother's breast... He will grow into himself in time. Excuse me. Fool, your services are not required." He knew that the Fool had no fondness for Regal, nor Regal for the Fool. Better to save them all the trouble. He left the room, wondering what matter was so urgent as to require his attention.

    The Fool 's eyes darted back and forth between the page and the King, and he could not conceal his surprise at Regal's boldness. He found himself inclined to agree with Chade on the subject of his arrogance, and wondered if Shrewd would listen to the old assassin more than he listened to his court jester. After all, he trusted him with the knife of the kingdom. Chade seemed to have ample wisdom. He had begun to rise to keep his place at Shrewd's side, but settled back down with relief upon being dismissed where he was. After the door had closed behind Shrewd, the Fool skillfully dropped his eyes to avoid meeting Chade's.

    Chade did not bother with any such niceties, and he made no secret of his inspection while he looked at the Fool. The boy was sitting on the floor like a child, and looking as pale and strange as he ever had. Chade knew well that appearances could be used as an effective distraction, and he wondered how much Shrewd overlooked because of his other peculiarities. Shrewd trusted the Fool completely, and even Fitz had come to  _ care _ for the odd lad. Chade did not believe the Fool to have made an effort to ingratiate himself with any other people- influential or otherwise- but he thought it interesting that those the Fool sought to win over were the king and the son of the recently deceased crown prince.

     "Well then, Fool. It seems that we are alone in one another's company. A rare occurrence." Chade waited to see what the Fool would say to that and observed him closely.

    "Yes, sir," the Fool acknowledged with a brief glance to that particular place just to the side of Chade's head, just so the man knew he had received the proper respect for someone above the Fool's own station. He had nothing else to say, and was in truth a little intimidated by Chade. If the old man wished to converse with him, so be it, but he would not seek this.

    Chade read the Fool's discomfort and fought back a smirk. He reached out and scooped the dice off of the table, depositing them one at a time into a small cloth sac. "Shrewd's fondness for dice always surprised me, you know," Chade said. "He was a boy who could never stand to see a thing that he could not control or predict, and he grew to be a man of the same character: meticulous, cautious, and shrewd as he is named. I believe that may be why he took such an interest in your supposed gifts of foresight."

    That hit a nerve, and the Fool looked up. He knew Chade was manipulating him, but even his best friend had been able to offend him with wayward comments about his gifts, not to mention a man he neither liked nor trusted. "Supposed, sir?" he asked politely.

    Chade gave the Fool a level stare. "Indeed," he said, and he let the confirmation hang in the air for a moment. "Any man, or child as it were, with a clever tongue could spin some vague tale and later twist the meaning to suit the facts. My brother may believe that you speak the truth, but I find myself reluctant. Shrewd he may be, but he has some very interesting blind spots." 

    The dull stare of a servant that the Fool had so well perfected cooled into a calculating wisdom frightening for someone who appeared as young as he did. His voice was still pleasant and polite as he spoke to Chade, but he could not refrain from raising an eyebrow. "You do not believe me. King Shrewd does. There are only two sides to this coin, and either one has a chance of landing face up." If he had to, he would mention the Prophecy that had already come true, which Fitz had fulfilled in Rippon. That one had been quite specific.

    "I believe," Chade said with a measured tone, "that there can be only one truth, and what Shrewd or I believe has no bearing on what that truth may be... Of course, belief can lead to action. Why else would people lie, if not to somehow affect the world around them by manipulating the beliefs of others? Convincing a king, one of Shrewd's discernment, must take considerable skill. Convincing a child after that would be a simple matter... But what action do you hope to bring about, Fool?"

    The Fool believed that Chade was accusing him of attempting to manipulate the King, which of course was not his intention. He let the accusation lie, however, and took a moment to ponder how to answer Chade's question. He knew he was being scrutinized, and every word--spoken or unspoken--would alter Chade's opinion of him.

    "The right one," he said simply.

    Chade shook the dice in his bag and then poured them out into his palm. He would think on the Fool's words later. "When I throw these, what numbers will the dice land on, Fool?"

    The smile dropped from his face, and the Fool fought off a wave of irritation. The gift of Prophecy did not work that way, but he did not want to give Chade the satisfaction of saying that aloud. "No matter how they land, sir, it will not affect the future of the lives we live."

    "There are many men who would disagree with you," Chade smiled. He cast the dice and watched them scatter across the table. "Men have lost their lives over the fall of a die." He let his hand fall heavily on the table as he turned to look at the Fool again. "And every man's life is a throw of the dice... Oh, we can manage things as best we can, weight the dice or shake the table, but even Shrewd must know that we cannot predict the future with certainty."

    "Men may have lost their lives over the fall of a die," the Fool replied, "but not  _ those _ dice." From the side faces that he could see, the Fool knew what the top faces showed. "We can only predict how the future must come to pass to preserve us all, and take the proper action to ensure that future is the one we receive."

    "And so I ask you again, Fool, what action do you hope to bring about?" Chade's voice was firm, but not unkind. Steel was not his weapon, and poisons were better concealed when tasteless or sweet as honey.

    "As I have told you sir, the one that must." They were locked in a cycle of words now: neither would give any ground to the other, and neither could hope to breach the other's defense. The Fool met Chade's eyes and let his cool anger dissipate once more into the slightly absent complacent expression he wore in general company.

    Chade hummed to himself and regarded the Fool. It had been years since the boy had come to Buckkeep, and no ill had come from his presence yet. None, unless one counted his misguided affections for Fitz. Chade was torn between his suspicion and his desire to dismiss the Fool as a simpleton. He had read scrolls describing some malady that was characterized by a loss of pigment and strange delusions, and Chade recognized both of those things in Shrewd's Fool. Was he attempting to have a rational conversation with a madman? He could have scoffed at himself. It had not ceased to annoy him that Shrewd appeared to believe that the Fool could foretell the future, not only because it was an inherently ridiculous notion, but also because of his own lacklustre attempts at scrying. Would he forever be surrounded by folk with magic that he could not himself master? Infuriating. He knew that he would make much better use of such gifts. Chade scooped up the dice and then held them out toward the Fool. "Since it seems that you cannot foresee the fall of the dice, perhaps it would be an even game if we were to play. Would you care to join me until Shrewd returns?" 

    The Fool looked at Chade with some measure of suspicion, but he slowly stood up and slid into the chair opposite Chade. "Very well, sir. But if this is a game that I am expected to lose to preserve our statuses, you will yourself disappointed." 

    "You're very confident," Chade observed. "Would you care to make a wager?" 

    The Fool raised an eyebrow. "What are the stakes?" Chade was as cunning as a serpent, and the Fool did not know if he could outsmart the assassin.

    "One truth," Chade offered. "For each victory, the winner asks a question of the loser that must be answered truthfully." Chade had hesitated over offering such a bargain, but he felt confident that the Fool would not know enough to ask him anything he had not already heard at Shrewd's feet.

    "How am I to know if you are telling the truth?" the Fool asked. "Lying is your life, and I do not know you well enough to detect falsehood.”

    "I could say the same to you. Is it not your job to dissemble before a crowd?" Chade raised his eyebrow at the Fool. "Two liars in a game of truth... Well, it's all in good fun. Something with which to pass the time. Do you disagree?" 

    "There is a difference between acting and lying," the Fool returned. "But very well. I agree. For what it is worth, I will not lie."

    Chade chuckled to himself. "Very well then, it's a wager. Shall we?" He gestured with an open palm toward the table.

    The Fool nodded. "We shall." He took up the dice first, to ensure that Chade had not tampered with them. His first roll resulted in a straight of 2-3-4-5-6. He blinked at the dice, surprised, and wondered if maybe Chade had loaded them after all. "I...pass my next two rolls," he said cautiously.

    Chade scowled at the Fool's good fortune and took his turn with the dice. After three rolls, he frowned down at his 4-5-6-6-6. Shrewd had been beating him all morning, and now his Fool was as well? He snorted. "Well, I cannot say I am entirely surprised. Games of chance have never agreed with me. Your question?"

    The Fool had not been thinking of a question, and his brows drew together as he pondered one now. "If Shrewd told you to kill Fitz, would you do it?" He knew this was something Fitz was worried about.

    Chade raised his eyebrows. "Shrewd knows that I would not agree to it, and so he would not ask it of me. I do not doubt that he has others to do his bidding in that regard, hidden even from myself..." Chade picked up one of the dice and turned it between his fingers. "Has Shrewd hinted about taking such an action?" He doubted that would be the case, but one never knew. Shrewd had grown more cautious with age.

    "You didn't answer my question," said the Fool, wondering if he would have to push this hard with every query. "Would you do it?"

    Chade gave the question thought. Fitz was as good as his son, as far as he was concerned. He'd taught him, held him while he cried, and done his best to see that he survived the turbulent politics that surrounded him. Chade sighed and dropped the die back onto the table, where it rolled to a stop. "It would depend entirely on the circumstances. Ordinarily, no. I have done my best to protect the lad, and I will continue to do so. If it were absolutely unavoidable, then yes. As quickly and painlessly as I could. But only in the most extreme of circumstances, where to do so would be a mercy." Privately, he thought about letting the boy hide away somewhere quietly, but even as he imagined some grand escape, he knew that it would be dangerous. For Fitz, for himself, and for the crown. 

    It was not the ideal answer, but it all depended on Shrewd's judgement, which the Fool trusted. He nodded. "Alright. You go first." He waved at the dice.

    Chade took up the dice and wondered whether he would continue on his losing streak. It was not entirely a loss, of course. The questions the Fool asked were information in themselves. When a 4, 5, and 6 appeared in one roll, he wondered if he might manage to do better for himself this time around. He took up the other two and cast them again, and a 3 appeared. His last roll was of only one die, and it yielded him no better result. Still, it wasn't bad. He waited for the Fool to take his turn, and while he did, he thought about the Fool's question. It hadn't been a surprising one, based on what he'd seen of the two boys together, but he made a note to ask Shrewd what his current opinion on the boy was. Chade had no desire to find a new apprentice. 

    The Fool's first roll yielded a run of 1-2-3-4, and an extra 1. Chade was currently still beating him, and he wondered whether he should try for the straight, or to roll more ones. He picked up the extra one and rolled again, giving him an extra 2. He grimaced and tried again, but ended up with a six. He shrugged and looked to Chade

    Finally, a victory. Chade was pleased. He knew that he should give his question careful consideration, and so he thought a while. Any question regarding the Fool's purpose in coming to Buckeep or the events he wished to influence would likely lead to the same evasion the Fool had performed earlier, and Chade did not want to squander this opportunity. He considered asking the Fool whether he was honest in his affections towards Fitz, but affection was not mutually exclusive with manipulation. "What do you hope to gain through your association with FitzChivalry?" Chade asked at last.

    "I want us to save the world," the Fool replied neutrally. He was not about to lie, and Chade would most likely not even understand, since Fitz had not. "He and I are destined to do so."

    "I took it upon myself to read a great deal about the religion you follow shortly after the occasion that you first presented yourself before King Shrewd... I have read many other accounts that offer alternative perspectives, but I understand that those would have no bearing upon your actions. Am I to understand it then, that you believe Fitz to be your 'Catalyst'?" There was a hint of something in Chade's tone that was not quite derision, but rather more along the lines of bitterness.

    The Fool 's stomach dropped. He was not entirely comfortable as Prophet yet, and Fitz did not know he was the Catalyst. "You only get one question," he whispered, though his tone itself answered well enough. He scooped up the dice and took his turn, receiving in the end two pairs of 4 and 1, with a six aside. 

    Chade scowled, but took up the dice. On his first roll, he managed three 1s and two 5s. He left it at that and looked at the Fool expectantly. 

   The Fool sighed. He had hoped that he would take the victory, or that King Shrewd would return. "Yes, FitzChivalry is my Catalyst," he answered. He had a similar discomfort baring his soul to Chade as he had had at the thought of baring his flesh to Fitz. "I knew it the moment I saw him."

    Chade thinned his lips and looked at the dice in apparent displeasure. Though he'd won the throw, it felt more like he'd been dealt a defeat. No- that he'd been cheated. He wanted to decry the Fool's beliefs as insanity, but he recognized the impulse to have been borne of childish petulance. He gestured irritably at the dice, but said nothing in regards to the new information he'd learned.

     The Fool could not manage another loss. He had already revealed far too much to Chade, who in turn could tell King Shrewd. The Fool was certainly not ready for Shrewd to know that he was not solely loyal to the Six Duchies. His first roll showed two fours, two twos, and a one, and rerolled the one into a third two. He nodded to pass off his last roll.

    Chade ended off with another 3-4-5-6 and sighed. Just when he'd begun to learn something of significance, he was thwarted. It was frustrating. "Your question, then?"

    The Fool did not have an end goal to his questions in mind the way Chade did, but he did have a few personal curiosities, most of them for Fitz's benefit. "How do you believe Prince Chivalry died?" 

    "A dangerous question, even now," Chade commented. "Are you sure that you wish to call into question the story that he fell from his horse?"

    "I have heard both King Shrewd and Prince Verity mention the matter. Neither of them believe that to be likely. I want to know what you think. Sir. Truthfully." Verily, the Fool had become far too accustomed to the diplomatic immunity he held at Shrewd's feet, and was not as cautious as he should have been.

    Chade took a moment to decide whether or not he could answer, during which he stroked his beard. "I do not," he said at last, "believe that Chivalry fell from his horse. I believe it to have been murder, but by whose hand I cannot say." 

    The Fool grimaced, wishing he had better phrased the question. He pushed the dice over to Chade. "Very well. Go on then."

    Chade scooped up the dice and rolled, considering the questions he could ask though he had no guarantee of asking them. Three 1s and two 2s were his end result, and he leaned back in his chair to wait while the Fool took his turn. Could this boy truly be a White Prophet with the magic of prescience, and Fitz his catalyst? The idea was almost laughable, but Chade had long ago learned not to laugh in the face of seemingly preposterous things. The thought of Chivalry siring a bastard had been a laughable one at one point. 

    The Fool also rolled three ones, but instead of two twos, two sixes came up. He breathed a sigh of relief. "Who do you believe within the court capable of the arrangements to have Prince Chivalry killed?" If Chade's answer was no one then so be it, but the Fool had his fair share of suspicions. 

    Chade hummed. "Capable? Shrewd, myself, even Fitz. There are also the higher ranking nobility to consider, and one must not forget the princes... Capability is, of course, not the sole question. Motivation would, perhaps, have been better." 

    A grunt of frustration issued from the back of the Fool's throat. He had again asked the wrong question, and had squandered another victory. Truly, he was losing his edge. "You make a good point, sir. I don't suppose you would like to provide enlightenment?" 

    Chade took a breath to refuse the Fool's request and insist that they roll the dice again, but he reconsidered and ran his fingers along the table's edge idly. "Why do you want to know, Fool?"

    "Because I think some people deserve to know what truly might have happened to him, but I am in a better position than they to retrieve that information," the Fool answered, thinking not only of Fitz but also Burrich. He had mixed feelings towards the stablemaster, but he knew from Fitz how much he had loved Chivalry.

    Chade shook his head once, firmly. "Then I refuse. That is a dangerous matter to speculate upon even now, never mind to go spreading those speculations about the keep. In the end, it matters little and you may be assured that I keep a wary eye where I ought to. Chivalry is dead, and he will remain so no matter who knows the truth behind his death."

    "If you won't tell me, tell Fitz at least," the Fool pleaded. "He respects you enough not to act on it if you tell him not to." 

    "Fitz and I have already conversed about this matter," Chade said. "Besides that, I believe that he has more pressing concerns at the moment. With any luck, he will pass Galen's damnable test and be back among us soon enough." 

    "He will pass," the Fool maintained. "He must."

    "Whether he does or doesn't, it will be good to have him back. I mistrust anything that takes him out of the range of my protection." Chade did not bother to reach for the dice, and instead added a measure of tea to his cup and drank. 

    "If he does not pass," the Fool said solemnly, now more confident in meeting Chade's eyes. "He will die. This cannot, and must not, happen."

    "Is this your prediction, then?" Chade asked mildly. 

    The Fool set his jaw. "My Prophecy." 

    "There's very little we can do about it at this point," Chade said, though inwardly he felt a growing concern. Things had not seemed promising from what he'd been able to gather. 

    The Fool did not like to think of his helplessness in this situation, but all was in Fitz's hands now. He did not know what he would do if his Catalyst were to perish, and the very thought made him look away. "We can pray."

    "Yes," Chade said sardonically. "Prayer is often the comfort of soldiers, sailors, priests, and fools." He sighed his discontent and picked up the dice again, listening to the small clatter they made as they bumped against one another in his palm. He had nothing against sitting and waiting when it was purposeful, but he was rather like Shrewd in that he disliked things that were wholly out of his control. Not for the first time, he wished that he'd been able to sneak a man into Galen's training, or send a discreet spy after Fitz on this last test. Unfortunately, he'd been forbidden from acting. Shrewd knew that he had an interest in seeing a bastard succeed at the Skill. Chade had still not gotten over his own jealousy.

    The Fool looked up sharply. "I shall take it as comfort then," he replied, not without a hint of bitterness. It was quickly replaced by the despair he felt at Fitz's situation, however.

    Chade tossed the dice down irritably, and one nearly escaped off of the table. Eyeing the 1-2-3, he took up the last two dice and re-rolled. He had no more control over how Fitz performed on this test than he had over the fall of the dice, but he considered himself mildly lucky when a 4 appeared along with an extra 3. "Damn Galen and his ridiculous test," Chade grumbled.

    "That, at least, we can agree on," the Fool muttered, throwing the dice to receive two ones, and a 4-5-6. He rerolled the pair against his better judgement, coming up with a three and another six. He left it at that, since he was already beating Chade. "Who in court do you believe to have the motive to kill Prince Chivalry?" he asked, determining once and for all to lay the question to rest

    "You're like a dog with a bone," Chade grumbled. "However, I will have to disappoint you. There is no-one at court with such a motive, at least not enough of one to actually follow through."

     "With all due respect, sir, I think that's horseshit," the Fool said sweetly, "but I will let the question rest. Go on."

    Chade barked a laugh. "Horse shit, is it? With Chivalry out of the way at Withywoods, who would have thought it necessary? Most people are lazy, and would have been content to let things settle once he'd abdicated. The individual's motivation would have had to have been a strong one to go so far once he'd already given up his right to the crown. Even Regal was, at that time, satisfied that Chivalry'd been put out of the way. I believe you'll find that I spoke the truth." Chade took up the dice again and rolled. At the end of it he had 2-3-6-6-6.

     "I do believe I said I was letting the question rest," said the Fool, informing Chade with unspoken words that he had just revealed more than the Fool had either hoped for or expected, and needlessly at that. From his beginning roll of 1-1-2-3-4, he ended up with the full run of 1-2-3-4-5. He hid a smile. The Fool was not normally this fortuitous at dice, and yet Fate had smiled upon him this day. "What is your true opinion on the two Princes?"

    "I think that Verity is a fine soldier, and that Regal is a conceited pup with more ambition than sense, but you knew that. You've heard me admonishing Shrewd often enough." The Fool heard a good many things, and Chade wondered again at his brother's judgment. Hearing the Fool himself admit that he was supposedly the White Prophet for the age did lend an interesting note to his presence at Buckkeep. Chade cursed his poor luck at dice. He had questions, and it was irritating to lose again and again. The next time they met, Shrewd would need to find another game, because Chade was becoming sick of this. Nevertheless, he took the dice and rolled. As they settled, Chade's eyebrows shot up.

    The Fool 's eyes narrowed as Chade's one roll mirrored his own first one. He was not entirely past the supposition that the dice were weighted in some way that he was not educated enough to figure out. Even his roll of two twos and three fours was not enough to best the run of five, and he looked up at Chade expectantly. "Fortune turns," he mumbled.

    "For one so wed to the idea of manipulating fate, you place a surprising amount of importance on prayer and luck," Chade said, and then deliberately met the Fool's colourless gaze. "Regardless of your beliefs on the matter of prophets and catalysts, what is it that you feel for Fitz? Has your... friendship merely been a ruse in order to make him more amenable to following your suggestions?" Though he could have asked a great many things in that moment, such as the fate of the Farseers or the outcome of the war, Chade gave himself caution. If he had asked those questions, he would not have known if he should believe the answers he was given or dismiss them as the ramblings of a lunatic. This, at least, was a matter that Chade could more easily address himself.

    The Fool flushed a deep red, but it was out of anger and indignation rather than any embarrassment. "Never," he swore. "Never would I attempt to manipulate him in such a way you imply. Our quest will be realized through mutual cooperation and volition, never by the craft of intrigue by which you live your life. I respect both my honour and his too much to even  _ think _ of such a thing. No, my care for him is true."

    Chade did not know which answer would have been worse, but he found he believed the Fool's answer to have been truth. As it was, Chade began to see the dangers of one who loved wholeheartedly but also sought to bend the other to his own purpose. It would have been hypocritical of him to fault the Fool for doing such a thing, but he could use his own sway over the boy to ensure that his loyalty to the crown was not supplanted by loyalty to his friend. Chade looked on the Fool's indignant expression with a small smirk. "Honour?" His tone was amused. "Fitz is the same as me, boy, or have you forgotten that? Our honour is in that we do our duties to the Farseers by whatever means necessary... As for yours, well, I have yet to take its measure. Still, I believe you. I only hope that your affections will bring no harm to the boy."

    "I should hope not," the Fool scoffed. "I only wish the best for him, and perhaps a life in which his sole duty will not clash quite so greatly with the--yes, honour--that he still possesses in great quantity."

    "I'm afraid that such a life is impossible for him," Chade said, and he felt a bit annoyed that the Fool seemed to believe Fitz to be in possession of some greater honour than their quiet work would permit. Fitz knew his duty, and he did it with neither undue relish nor question. Moreover, Fitz was his apprentice, and Chade disliked that the Fool thought that he could know the boy better than Chade himself did.

    "You suppose he will be yours to command forever, then?" the Fool challenged.

    "Not forever, no," Chade replied confidently, "Do you mark how old I am? I will die some day, and Fitz will be my successor. A man does not leave this life once he enters it, because to do so would be treason. Do you mean to convince him otherwise?"

    "I have no need to," the Fool replied. "As much as he admires you, Chade, he does not want to be you. I learned that a long time ago, and I am surprised that you do not know. Your life does not appeal to him." He added pointedly: "Any of it. Cherish his companionship and his services when you can. Please, take nothing for granted.”

    Chade narrowed his eyes at the Fool. The boy was  _ his _ and he didn't enjoy having that questioned by a child. Through his annoyance, though, he sensed his own advantage with an instinct borne of years upon years of politicking. The Fool believed that he knew something Chade did not- however mistaken he clearly was- and he'd become talkative in his need to prove Chade wrong. His words were revealing. "Fitz is sworn to the Farseers by the same oath I am," Chade argued. "As  _ honourable _ as he is, I doubt very much that he would break that oath. Fitz is loyal to me completely, and if he does not appreciate the nuances of what we do just yet, he will come to in time. He has his father's head for diplomacy and my training in the quieter ways to facilitate it. Such a combination could not be better suited for our life."

    The Fool nodded. "Yes, he is loyal to you. But as you just said, you shall not always be around for him to be loyal to. And, as heavy as my heart is to admit it, neither shall King Shrewd. When all those to whom he is sworn are gone, nothing will stop him from pursuing a life beyond these walls." The Fool would defend Fitz to his last breath, and he knew already that Fitz did not feel the same way about the life that Chade did.

    "After Shrewd comes Prince Verity, and his heir after him, or do you mean to insinuate that the Farseers will not rule for as long as you've led Shrewd to believe?" Chade frowned at the Fool. "Fitz is sworn to the family, and he will serve it until he is released from his bond. If he truly wishes to leave our occupation, I will not stop him. He knows this. He has entertained the odd fancy here or there, but ultimately he chose to stay." 

    The Fool shook his head. "He won't choose to do so forever." He did not answer the question about the Farseers: their reign was important to the Breaking, but the Fool knew that there would be complications regarding this. Many Prophets had failed in their equivalent tasks.

    Chade heaved a sigh and accepted that he'd learned all that he was able on that front. The new knowledge unsettled him more than he cared to think about. Whatever Fitz chose to do with his life, Chade wished him well. What Chade could not abide was the thought that the Fool could be a rival for Fitz's loyalty. "Whatever the outcome, it will be Fitz's decision," Chade said. In the quiet after those words hung the unspoken declaration of war. It would be Fitz's decision, but that did not mean that Chade would not do all he could to keep his apprentice.

    "Of course it will be. I would not have it any other way." It was simply Fitz's Destiny to go farther than the outskirts of a court he was not comfortable in. If all went well, he would choose to follow that Destiny. If he did not, then the Fool would stay with him until he did, even if that day never came.

    When Shrewd returned to his chambers, grumbling about the tendency toward histrionics that Regal seemed to have inherited from Desire, he was greeted by the unexpected sight of his fool and his half-brother seated opposite to each other at the table, dice scattered between them.

    The Fool immediately leaped to his feet, having been occupying the seat that Shrewd had taken before, and he bowed to the King. "Sir."

    Shrewd chuckled, his mood improving somewhat. "There's a rare sight," he said. "I'm pleased to see the two of you doing more than eye one another like cats. Now, then, I believe that I was winning..." He took the seat the Fool had vacated and gave Chade an amused look that was not returned. The older man was looking more surly than usual, and Shrewd supposed that his luck must not have improved. Chade had never shared his affinity for dice, but then Chade had never had the ruling of a kingdom either. He might skulk around in the shadows and make his schemes, but Shrewd was the one to hold the final say. A toss of the dice was rather freeing, he found, since his victory or defeat was never the direct result of his own effort. Of late, his own efforts had been yielding him far less pleasing outcomes. It was nice that luck, at least, seemed to favour him. "Well, Fool? Was luck on your side as well?"

    "Somewhat, sir," the Fool replied quietly. He had won more throws, but it was Chade who had had the true victory of the day. The Fool had learned only one thing he did not already know, whereas Chade had breached his armour many times.

    "Good, good," Shrewd nodded to himself. "May we all be lucky in the coming year. I've a feeling we may need it."

    Nodding, the Fool returned to his post beside the hearth. He knew Chade would forever view him differently now, and he had to be more careful.

 

_     “In my youth, I was pridefully defensive of both my Gift and my Duties. Nothing incensed me quicker than doubt in those things, and often I made assurances of which I was unsure in an attempt to stand my ground. On some occasions I was profoundly wrong, and I feel a retrospective embarrassment over this. The first of such instances came in a civil but aggressive conversation between myself and Chade, where I was so desperate to outwit him that I brazenly declared that Fitz would die if he did not pass Galen’s test. At the time I considered it a safe assumption, for I had such blind faith in him that I could not imagine him failing. _

_     “I am extremely glad that what I deemed to be my Prophecy at the time was little more than an overconfident declaration based on a Dream not properly interpreted, for Fitz did fail. As always, I did my best to support him in the face of his disappointment.” _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	25. On Commencement and Companionship - Solace

__ _ The Fool has been with me through many difficult times. I don’t mean only those that threatened my life, though he was certainly there for those too, and saw to it that I would somehow survive them. He was there even when he had no reason to be. When I was surly and drunk and had pushed everyone else away, somehow the Fool still found his way in. I’ve forever been grateful for those moments. Even when I had no recollection of our love, I think that I still felt it then. No limits. _

 

    On his better days, Fitz would feel some guilt for the way his temper flared at those who attempted to reach out to him, and foolish for the way he isolated himself when he felt lonelier than he ever had. Did he feel he deserved it in some for the way he had failed to save Smithy? Perhaps. Whatever force gave acid to his tongue and thunder to his mood, it had done so effectively. Fitz was unwelcome in the stables, Patience was rightfully upset with him, and even Chade had not summoned him. With far too much time on his hands to think and no desire to see anyone in town, Fitz found himself sequestered in his room, Burrich-like, with a bottle of cheap wine and his head full of memories of the way Smithy would worry the covers with his teeth and play with boundless enthusiasm. Smithy had been so full of energy and excitement for life. He had not deserved to die. Fitz sighed, feeling the aching emptiness in his mind like the probing of the place where a tooth once was. It hurt, but he could not help himself.

    The Fool had not seen Fitz about in some time, and had not had the opportunity to congratulate him on living. In truth, he just wanted to see his friend's face and hear his voice once more. He had tried knocking without response, so he opened the door and slipped inside. Upon seeing Fitz on the bed clasping a bottle of wine--looking far too much like Burrich for comfort--he closed the door hard. "Well, Fitzy Fitz. Such a black mood exudes from you that I almost fear I have the wrong room."

    Fitz looked up, startled when the Fool entered. The Fool was invisible to his Wit-sense and quiet, besides. It disconcerted him that he had not noticed the door opening until the Fool spoke. "You probably have," Fitz said. "Why are you here?" His tone was surly, and he regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth.

    The Fool scoffed, and his eyebrows shot up. "Because no one else can stand to be around you," he said, just as harshly. "Being the only person who would even consider coming to see you, I decided that perhaps I could try to fix whatever has broken up there." He tapped his own head. "Not that there are many options."

    Fitz scowled, but had the decency to look away in shame. The Fool had borne the brunt of his temper and forgiven him more times than Fitz liked to think about. He did not understand why the Fool would bother, when he could simply leave Fitz alone and wait for his mood to improve. "Why? I've already been rude to you. I'm going to say something to offend you, and then you'll be cross with me." The idea of having one more person be cross with him was suddenly almost unbearable.

    "I'm already cross with you," said the Fool. He strode over to Fitz's bed and pulled the bottle from his loose hand. "First of all, you look exactly like Burrich. Second, you nearly died, and did not even have the decency to come to your dearest friend to announce your return."

    "Sorry," Fitz mumbled. He could not look the Fool in the eye, but he did move over so that the Fool would have room to sit. "I'm back, as you can see." Not that he could muster much enthusiasm about that.

   The Fool only sat after putting the bottle safely on the other side of the room. He doubted Fitz had the incentive to go get it. "I do see," he said, his tone softening a little. "You've survived, and you're out from under Galen's eye, so what could you possibly be lamenting?"

    Fitz felt a stab of irritation. "What do I have to lament?" He gestured at his empty room. "Smithy is dead, Burrich hates me, I failed my test..."

    "Smithy is dead?" The Fool felt the anger seep out of him, and he sat up straight. "Oh, Fitz...I'm so sorry." He laid a hand on Fitz's arm, looking at him with a world of sadness. This was another of heartbreaks of which he had Dreamed. First Nosy, now Smithy...he had to wonder if Molly would be next, or if there was something in between.

    Fitz blinked at the Fool and wondered at his own stupidity. He had felt Smithy's death so keenly that he had assumed somehow that the Fool had known. It had been silly of him, he realized. Of course the Fool would not have known. Just because it had shattered him did not mean that it was somehow common knowledge. "I'm sorry too," Fitz said hollowly. "I wasn't thinking. I know that you were close. I should have told you more gently."

    "What happened?" the Fool whispered, gently enough that Fitz would know he did not have to tell him if he would rather not.

    Fitz rubbed his eyes. He was not as drunk as he wanted to be. "Get the wine, Fool. Have some if you like..." He reported to the Fool as he would have reported to Chade, detailing the dream he'd had and the way he'd felt Smithy disappear after days of walking. He glossed over his encounter with the Forged ones. "I don't know who could have done it. I wish I knew."

    The Fool did not get the wine. Fitz had had enough, and it was alarming. But he did listen, and he kept silent until his friend was finished. "I'm sorry," he said again. "Neither of you deserved that."

    Fitz could not look at the Fool, and he swallowed against a lump in his throat. As painful as it had been, he felt better for having told someone what had occurred and for having someone with whom to share his sorrow. He felt a new wave of guilt for the way he had snapped at the Fool. He was being kind when Fitz knew he had done little to earn it. "Smithy shouldn't have died...He was always so excited whenever we went out, or to town. He enjoyed life so much, I wish I'd treated him better while he was alive. If you hadn't been able to take care of him while I was at my training, he would have been alone. Thank you for doing that." Fitz felt tears begin well in his eyes, and drunk as he was, he had not the control to stop them from falling. He scrubbed the unmanly things away on his sleeve.

    "Fitz..." The Fool kept his tone soft, and he put a hand to Fitz's cheek in order to turn him to look him in the eye. "He loved you, you were incredible with him. I don't think he would blame you for anything you think you did to him." There was nothing more the Fool wanted than to kiss away Fitz's tears, and his pain too, but he knew he could not.

    Fitz did his best to meet the Fool's eyes, but the cold hand on his cheek and the contrasting warmth of the Fool's gaze felt painful in a way that Fitz did not know how to describe, so he dropped his gaze. "I hate it," Fitz said, his voice rough. "I hate whoever killed him, I hate myself for failing to reach him in time, and I hate the world for being this way. I'm tired of it, Fool. Why did you take the wine away?"

    The Fool dropped his hand with a defeated sigh. "I took it away because you had enough. It's not good for you. Listen to me, Fitz. Whoever killed Smithy deserves the anger and hatred you feel towards them, but sitting here killing yourself slowly will help only them. It will not help you, and it will not help Smithy's memory."

    "I think it helps," Fitz argued, but half-heartedly. His anger and sorrow settled into a pool of melancholy that felt like it was drowning him. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm just so alone. In my head. I keep hurting everyone, but I don't want to be alone."

    "You're not alone," the Fool comforted him, almost desperate in his attempts to get Fitz to understand. His brow furrowed. "Fitz, I promised you. You will always have me. Please...please don't do this to yourself."

    Fitz thought about the Fool's words to the best of his ability. His mind felt foggy, and the words floated in the fog like ghosts or shadows that he could see but not quite grasp. It did not feel like he had the Fool. He wanted to, though. Wanted with a nameless longing that made his throat feel tight. If he could only stop feeling so alone, the world might be more bearable. It was impossible though. He did not know why, but he knew that it was. 

    Fitz pulled away from the Fool and stood, deciding that he would get the wine himself if the Fool wouldn't do it for him. "I don't have you, Fool. You're my closest friend, and I'm glad about that. I don't know why you stand me when I'm like this. But I don't have you. I don't quite know what I mean, but I miss you even though you're there. Maybe it's because you don't feel like anything with the Wit."

    The Fool tried to grab at Fitz's hand as he stood, but all he managed to do was to graze his fingers. "That isn't why," he whispered to himself, barely audible. He did not know if Fitz heard him, nor did he know if he wanted him to. It was because something was missing between them, something that the Fool knew and longed for and that Fitz remembered none of. He felt fire rise at the back of his throat as tears gathered in his eyes, and he cleared it away. "I want you to. To be able to think you have me, I mean. Tell me what I can do."

    Fitz picked up the wine bottle and stood, holding it in one hand and steadying himself against the wall with the other. He looked at the Fool sitting miserably on his bed and frowned, walking drunkenly back over and setting the bottle of wine down on the side table. He did not drink, but instead sat and looked at the Fool intently. He reached out and touched the Fool on the arm. "You're real," he observed. "But it's like you're not there." That grieved him much in the same way the loss of Smithy grieved him, but at least the Fool was alive and well. He cleared his throat and looked away. "You're already doing more than enough, Fool. I wish you wouldn't look so sad. I did that, didn't I? What did I do?" The Fool was supposed to smile and make barbed jests, not look as though he were about to cry. Fitz took the bottle of wine and took a swallow before offering it to the Fool. He looked like he could use it

    "You..." The Fool gently took the bottle, but he held it in his lap instead of drinking it. Perhaps if Fitz thought he was using it, he would not try to do so himself. "You have a habit of punishing yourself for things that are not your fault. I don't want that for you. If I could..." He wondered how much of this Fitz would remember in the morning. "I would tear down the sky to make you happy, FitzChivalry."

    "Why are you so...?" Fitz shook his head as words failed him. Why was the Fool so kind? Why was he saying something like that to him? Why was he so serious, when he was usually all jests and riddles? Fitz wondered where all of the Fool's levity had gone, and whether it were with the rest of him that Fitz missed so keenly. Impulsively, and heedless of the wine bottle, Fitz pulled the Fool into an awkward hug. He could not recall them hugging since they were children, but Fitz was too drunk to care that he was behaving like a child.

    The Fool gasped, and as soon as his moment of shock had passed he threw his arms around Fitz. He did not know what his friend had been about to ask, and he refused to selfishly hope for any specific question. Instead he held tight, afraid that if he let go Fitz would never touch him again. He buried his face in Fitz's shoulder, and did not even care in that moment that he smelled of cheap wine. He was real, and he was warm, and he was hugging him, and it was the first time the Fool had felt truly happy since the day Galen had stolen Fitz from him. The Fool felt a moment of guilt a moment after, so deep it tugged at his stomach. What right had he to be so selfishly happy, when all around him was the misery of the person he loved the most?

    Fitz took a breath and sighed it out, stirring the Fool's hair. The Fool had not objected, and that was good, so Fitz let himself relax. "Will you stay?" he asked. "I don't want to be alone anymore."

    A sound left the Fool, somewhere between a sigh and a sob and a sad chuckle. He nodded, his head still pressed against Fitz. "Yes, of course," he murmured, and the words travelled perfectly between them, despite the quietness of his tone. He gently kissed Fitz's shoulder before sitting up, not quite able to blink his tears away before they fell. He tried to wipe them away quickly so that Fitz would not comment.

    "Good," Fitz said with relief. A part of him had been prepared for a rejection of his childish request, but that tension melted away at the Fool's words. He frowned briefly over the Fool's actions, but when he gave no further sign of being upset, Fitz's concern left him. "Thank you," he added, remembering his manners. "I haven't forgotten. You stayed here with me when I first came to stay in the keep, and you asked if I wanted you to when I wanted to die, and now you're staying again. You always stay," Fitz observed. It was unusual, he thought, to want something and then receive it.

    The Fool smiled, glad at least that Fitz could remember that much. "Yes, I did stay then, and I always will if you ask me. Come on." The Fool stood and put the wine bottle aside again, this time corking it to keep it from being abused any further. He stooped to retrieve a nightshirt from the chest and handed it to Fitz. He was not quite sure his friend could manage on his own, but he did not offer aid, and would not unless Fitz asked. He turned away to grant him some privacy.

    Fitz's fingers felt slow and clumsy, and he fumbled with his laces, narrowing his eyes at the unnecessary complication. Why did they have to be so fiddly? With a sigh and a curse, he gave it up as useless. "You can turn around, Fool. I'll sleep in my clothes."

    The Fool turned back, eyeing the rumpled clothes Fitz was wearing. They looked as if he had already slept in them more than once, and they were not the cleanest. "I think it best if you change. You'll feel better in the morning."

    Fitz doubted that he would feel well in the morning regardless. "Can't. Too drunk," Fitz explained. "All of the bits are too complicated, and I don't really care." And that was precisely how he had come to sleep in his clothes the night before, and the night before that, and possibly longer. Perhaps he did need to change, if only so that the Fool would not have to smell them. Fitz frowned. "Help?"

    The Fool swallowed nervously and poked his tongue out over his lips where they had dried. He suddenly felt quite nervous, but he nodded tersely. "Um, of course." Willing his hands not to shake, he crouched and undid the laces of Fitz's shirt, which he had so struggled with before. The belt was the next to go, although the Fool had some difficulty working the stiff leather. He tugged the hem of the shirt out from where Fitz was sitting on it and looked up at his friend. "Put your arms up," he told him. When he complied, the Fool pulled it off in one fluid motion. He tried not to look at the skin he had bared, where Fitz was already gaining some muscle and the depth in his chest due to being a man. He walked over to discard the shirt in front of the clothing chest, hoping that Fitz would be able to bestir himself enough to take it down to be washed in the morning. While he was turned away from Fitz, his cheeks heated, and he hoped the other did not notice.

    "Thank you," Fitz said. He was unselfconscious of his own body, and he paid no mind to whether the Fool had turned or not when he finished the job of undressing himself and pulled his nightshirt on. His old clothes he made a pile of on top of where the Fool had left his shirt. "You should change too. My things'll be a bit big on you now, but you're welcome to borrow something."

    The Fool crossed his arms over his chest, not having turned away fast enough as Fitz finished changing. He had thought he would need more help, and he quickly lifted his eyes to the ceiling when he saw too much skin that he was not supposed to see. "It's alright," he said, and then reconsidered. He had slept in his clothes before, but he imagined they would probably bother Fitz. "Alright, fine," he amended.

    Fitz considered letting the Fool find something for himself. Laying down was tempting. If he did that, though, the world would start spinning, and so he rose to try to root through the chest for an old nightshirt that wouldn't hang too ridiculously on the Fool. He made a mess while he was at it, but at last he found one and held it out to the Fool triumphantly.

    "Thank you," the Fool said quietly, accepting the garment and again staring at Fitz until he turned away. He made the change quickly, and even felt a little vulnerable afterwards, since he had seen as much of his friend as he had. Putting that thought from his mind, he sat on the other side of the bed.

    “Don’t thank me, Fool.” Fitz’s shoulders slumped. “You were right that you’re the only person who would consider coming to see me. I’ve done nothing to deserve your thanks of late.”

    The Fool smiled softly, but he looked away while doing so. “You deserve my thanks and so much more, FitzChivalry. I am sorry that I said such hurtful things to you, and sorry too that I could not help you more.” 

    "You did help. Thank you. It's alright that you said that. It was true. I've been an ass to everyone lately, and they did nothing to deserve it. I'll apologize tomorrow." He hoped that he would be forgiven. He had been incredibly rude.

    The Fool sighed, nodding, and gestured at the mattress. "You should lay down, Fitz. You need to sleep." He wondered how long it had been since he had done so.

    Fitz lay down, and he missed the warmth of Smithy where he used to sleep beside him. Instead, there was the cool presence of the Fool. It was different, but good. As predicted, the world did begin to spin, but the Fool was there, and he would always stay.

    As soon as Fitz had made himself comfortable, the Fool lay down beside him and gathered him into his arms. He gently stroked his hair, trying to work all the tangles out with as little tugging as possible. "It's alright," he soothed. "You'll be alright, Fitz."

    At the Fool's soft touch and gentle words, Fitz felt tears begin to prickle at his eyes again. He wept then, for Smithy and for his relationship with Burrich and for all the ways he'd failed, but they were clean tears uncoloured by hatred or a desire for oblivion.

    The Fool felt Fitz's distress keenly in his heart, and he bowed his head to hold Fitz closer to him. He said nothing, knowing that no words could soothe Fitz more than his tears already were, but hummed instead a simple tune, the one he had played on the sea-pipes what seemed like ages ago.

    Fitz eventually quieted, and he lay still listening to the Fool's humming. The Fool had a nicer voice than he had expected. The tune was familiar, and he let himself be soothed by the song. For some reason, it quelled his sorrow and brought to mind hazy, happier times. It was some time before he could bring himself to interrupt. "I know that song," Fitz said quietly. "It's familiar, but I don't know from where. I like it."

    The Fool cut himself off abruptly. He was not sure if it was good or bad that Fitz recognized the song. "My mother used to sing it to me," he said instead.

    Fitz regretted speaking when the Fool's song stopped. "It's nice. You came to Buckkeep at around the same time as I did," Fitz recalled. For some reason, it had not occurred to him to think of the Fool as having parents before. "Do you miss your mother?"

    The Fool's fingers picked up their action again, stroking lightly through Fitz's hair. "Yes, I do." He knew, however, that Fitz could not remember his own mother, and so did not ask.

    "I'm sorry," Fitz said. He shut his eyes and relaxed under the Fool's touch. He wondered what the Fool's parents had been like, and what had become of them, but he couldn't bring himself to ask. The Fool was a very private person, and even drunk, Fitz knew better than to push too hard with his questioning.

    "That's alright." And then, surprising even himself with the words: "I think, if I were to lose you, I would miss you more than I ever could miss her." It felt almost a betrayal to say, but it was the truth. Fitz was his Catalyst, after all--that was why.

    Fitz opened his eyes again to look at the Fool. What was he to say to such a declaration, and how could he begin to fathom what it meant? His mind worked, but he could not figure it out. At a loss, he put it down to their friendship. Still, he was reminded of the moment he had bonded with Smithy, and suddenly been made the focus of his small world. "I'm here," Fitz said, responding in words what he would have used his magic to say. "I'm here, so you don't have to miss me."

    "I know," the Fool whispered. "But I still do, sometimes." He felt he could not explain it to Fitz any more than that without betraying all he had sought to repair and he sighed. "I think I always will."

    "I miss you too," Fitz said, echoing his earlier words. The Fool was next to him, threading cool fingers through his hair and speaking to him, but Fitz still missed him. It made no sense, and he quested toward the Fool futilely with his Wit.

    A brief, bittersweet smile passed over the Fool's lips. Perhaps, one day, he would be able to explain to Fitz why they both felt the way they did, and preserve his duty as Prophet besides. He sighed again and tightened his arms around Fitz. "Just go to sleep," he soothed, and he wondered if Fitz could feel the vibrations through his chest.

    Fitz gave up his questing and sighed. "Good night, Fool," he said, and did his best to focus on the feeling of the Fool beside him rather than the nameless longing. With the tune of the Fool's song still sounding in his mind, Fitz fell into his first peaceful sleep in days.

    The Fool, for his part, stayed awake nearly an hour longer to ensure that Fitz would have no need of him. He would hate to be asleep if Fitz had a bad dream and needed comfort. When he was convinced that the other boy was sound asleep for the night, the Fool looked down at him with undisguised longing. "I love you," he whispered, and moved to press a cool kiss to Fitz's lips. He looked upon his face and marked again the beauty there, untainted in sleep by the pressing anguish of daily life. The Fool kissed Fitz's brow as well, and then returned to the position in which Fitz had fallen asleep in order to seek his own slumber.

 

_     “‘Will you honour me by accepting my love and consenting to spend the rest of our lives together?’ he asked me, and in that moment all the pain of the years I had spent awaiting and imagining and lamenting the absence of those words lifted from my heart. The feeling of such weightlessness made me lose my breath, and when I regained it all I could do was sob. Never again would I have to guard my tongue against declarations of love, never again would I have to hesitate before pulling him into my arms, never again would I have to feel guilt about kissing him. He was to be mine and I was to be his, and that more than made up for any past hurts.” _

\-- _ Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	26. On Commencement and Companionship - Inheritance

_     I have been to see Verity-as-Dragon several times since the day he first woke. He didn’t stir from his slumber, but when I touched my hand to the stone I could feel him there with both Wit and Skill. I quested out to him, but aside from the feeling of his regard, I could not converse with him. Once, when I was lost in a Skill pillar, Nighteyes told me that I’d met Verity there in the Skill current, and Shrewd, and Chade. I wish that I could remember it. If I could speak with Verity again, I would like to thank him for all of the small kindnesses that he showed to me as a boy. I have always remembered them and been grateful.  _

 

    Verity knew all about what had happened between Galen and Fitz. He was offended by the injustice of it all, but his father seemed to think it was for the best. He had never wanted Fitz to learn the Skill in any case, and now he was dissuaded from such while still keeping his life. Verity did not agree, but he did not want to add a quarrel with his father to his growing list of problems. He did not bother to ask if he would be allowed to teach Fitz the Skill, as his father would most certainly say no and he had not the time in any case. However, there was nothing stopping him from spending time with the boy and perhaps giving him a few pointers. It was a shallow deceit, to be sure, but Verity would want to see Fitz even if the Skill had nothing to do with it. He was a good boy, and Verity thought sometimes he needed more adult support than he was getting. As such, he sent a page--to Fitz, whose business it was, and not his father--asking him to please meet him in the tower room, preferably with breakfast. He hated to make the boy a page, but there was only so far he could bend the rules without attracting attention. Besides, Fitz was welcome to any share of what he brought Verity.

    After stumbling out of bed and pulling his door open, Fitz blinked at the page, bleary-eyed from sleep. Chade had had him the night before, grilling him on his progress, and Fitz had collapsed into bed not long before sunrise. It seemed that to make up for the month Fitz had spent idling in his grief and failure, Chade was determined to give him as many tasks as possible. Spying, mostly, but also killing and perfecting his ability to mix poisons. He felt little for the Forged ones he killed, empty as they were against his Wit. It hardly seemed real. 

    Fitz sent the page away and readied himself quickly, putting on a fresh shirt, splashing water on his face, and tying his hair back. To hear Verity ask for breakfast was welcome news, because the few times he'd glimpsed Prince Verity at the Great Hall, the man seemed to have lost all appetite. If he'd been a hound, Burrich would have given him a de-worming tonic and taken him out in the sun. Fitz procured from the kitchens a hearty breakfast, and also took it upon himself to mix a mildly stimulating tea with mint, fennel, and ginger. When he ascended to Verity's tower, he was surprised at the lack of a guard at the door, and balanced the tray on one hand so that he could rap at the door. "Prince Verity, sir? It's FitzChivalry," he called, feeling a bit strange saying his own name. 

    Verity opened his eyes and called out, "Come in, Fitz." However, considering that the boy was carrying a breakfast tray, Verity realized that opening the door might not be the easiest task and so pushed himself into a standing position, walking more slowly than he would have liked over to the door and pulling it open. "Good morning."

    Fitz looked up at Verity, startled. He'd been expecting to have to work the door open himself, and he felt guilty that he'd made Verity admit him like a servant. He was grateful, though, and he took a two-handed grip on the tray so that he wouldn't spill it all over his prince. "Good morning, my Prince," Fitz said. He looked down at the tray and then back up at Verity. "You asked for breakfast?" 

    "Not if you plan on addressing me like that," said Verity, but the twinkle in his eye and the good-natured smile he shot Fitz took the vehemence from his words. "I was hoping we could share, actually, since I doubt you've eaten. I hope you brought enough for two?" Perhaps he should have specified that in his note. No matter, he most likely would not be eating much anyways. He turned to go back to his chair by the window.

    Fitz followed Verity inside and nudged the door shut behind him before espying a small table and setting his tray down upon it. "I think so, um, Verity. Accidentally, though. I'd hoped that you were hungry." Looking down at the tray, perhaps he had overdone it in his enthusiasm. He looked at Verity with the critical eye he would give to a sick horse. "Are you alright?" 

    "As well as can be expected, my boy," Verity sighed. He cast his eyes out to the horizon and instinctively reached out with the Skill. He could feel the Raiders in their own ports, but nothing besides that. "And what of you, Fitz? Are you alright?"

    "Sir?" The question was unexpected. He supposed that Verity must have heard of his failure to learn to Skill. Fitz looked away to pour the tea. It was fragrant and strong, and Fitz wondered whether Verity took honey. He added some anyway, because surely Verity needed it whether he wanted it or not. "I'm fine," he answered shortly and then brought the cup to Verity. Anyone could have been sent to bring a tray from the kitchens, and Fitz wondered what other reason there was behind his summons.

    "Thank you," Verity acknowledged as he accepted the tea, immediately taking a sip. He smiled. "You even drink your tea the way he did. Uncanny." Verity shook his head and rested his hands--and the cup--in his lap. He tore his eyes from the window to look at Fitz. "Are you truly?" he asked, willing that Fitz could trust him enough to allow him to help.

    Fitz didn't know how to respond, and it took him a moment to digest the knowledge that Verity seemed genuinely interested. With that knowledge came a rush of affection for his uncle. Verity had always been kind to him. "Fine," Fitz said again, "though I regret that I had no aptitude for the Skill. I would have liked to help you."

    Verity nodded. "I believe you still can, FitzChivalry," he mused. "Although perhaps not in the way you would most like." He reached out towards the boy with his Skill and smiled. "Whoever told you you have no aptitude is sorely mistaken. You are a veritable flame of Skill-energy."

    Fitz huffed, assuming that Verity referred to his other training. Truly, killing Forged ones did not feel like it was much help when it was the Raiders who were the true threat. He made a startled face, blinking several times when he felt the brush of Verity's mind. It was as unexpected as the touch of a ghost. He shook his head. "If there's any strength, it's yours Verity. I don't know how you managed to reach me at all."

    "It's in your blood," Verity replied, truly regarding Fitz for the first time since he had entered. "As is...so much more." Yes, the boy looked exactly like Chivalry, right down to the patchy way his first beard was growing in. Verity eyed this with some amusement, but again regretted that Fitz wanted nothing to do with his father. "How old are you now, Fitz? Fifteen?"

    Fitz nodded, impressed that Verity would remember. "Yes, Verity. Assuming the guardsman got my age right at Moonseye."

    "Uncanny," Verity repeated. Realizing that this would most likely make Fitz uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and took another drink of his tea. "I apologize. It's simply that..." he waved his hand vaguely at Fitz. "You've nearly become a man, and I missed it completely."

    Fitz blushed, aware of the changes in himself and reminded of the period of time he'd spent enduring Chade's amusement while he'd reported to him in a breaking voice. He scratched at his spotty beard self-consciously. He was a bit proud of the new breadth to his shoulders, but felt awkward about the way his hands seemed too large for his arms and his gangling frame. "You haven't missed anything, sir. Verity." Fitz reassured. "I'm still myself. Should I serve breakfast?"

    Verity, who was not particularly hungry, ignored the question. "It does get quite itchy, doesn't it?" he chuckled. "That is a problem easily solved, you know." There was a friendly tease to his words, much the same cadence that Chiv had used with him in private.

    "I know," Fitz said, blushing a bit darker. "I've thought about shaving it off, but..." But he'd been putting off finding the proper supplies, and truth be told he was a bit intimidated by the idea. He was sure that he could manage, but it would be trial and error with a sharp blade.

    "But...?" Verity prompted, moments before realizing that Fitz hardly would have had anyone able to teach him what few delicacies there were to being a man. Burrich no longer spoke to him, King Shrewd barely acknowledged his presence, and he had no father to speak of. "Do you need help, Fitz?" he asked gently.

    "Um..." Fitz stared for a moment, and then looked away. Yes, he supposed that he could ask for help. He wondered what Chade would say to such a request. He could not consider asking one of the servants- the gossip would travel and he was sure that he'd hear the whispers. "I'll manage," Fitz decided. "I've just been putting it off. I can use a blade on another man, but I'm not sure where to start with something like this." It was funny in a way, he thought. Verity had ignored his question about breakfast, but Fitz stubbornly took bread and covered it generously with fresh, yellow butter and a bit of good cheese, ignoring the fancier things the kitchen staff had provided him with. Good, simple food was best, Fitz thought. He put it on a plate and held it out to Verity. "You should eat if you're to keep your strength up for Skilling."

    Verity grunted in acknowledgement as he accepted the plate, and he took a single large bite to placate his nephew. He found it difficult to chew, however, and even more difficult to swallow without it coming up again. He felt as though his stomach was already full and that he was trying to pile more food on top of it. "I've no doubt that you can manage, but I will tell you now that a dagger is not the best tool to use." Knowing the boy's bullheadedness, Verity had no doubt that he would have tried that before asking anyone for a razor.

    Fitz sighed. Perhaps he would have to town, then. Which shop would he even go to? He supposed that he shouldn't put it off much longer. He hung his head a bit, frowning over his dilemma. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Verity what he should do, but the words caught in his throat. Verity was a prince, and he had far more important things to concern himself with than the minor problems of his bastard nephew. Verity seemed hardly to have the time to take care of his own grooming, with a good day's growth of stubble covering his chin.

    Verity's sigh mirrored Fitz's and he stood, passing both his plate and his cup into his nephew's hands. "Hold those for a moment, would you?" He made his way over to the small table at the side of the room, shuffling through scrolls and maps until he apparently found what he was looking for: a small hand mirror and a silvered razor. Since he spent most of his time in the tower, he had brought the items up to avoid the inconvenience of having to return to his chambers. His own reflection gave him pause, and he grumbled as he returned to Fitz: "Well, I suppose I hardly present the best example at the moment." He shifted both items to one hand, took the mug of tea back from Fitz with the other, and replaced it with the former two objects.

    Fitz took the things and looked at Verity with wide eyes. They were Verity's, of that he was sure by the quality and the fact that they'd been in the room at all. Fitz put the plate down and used his free hand to bare the blade of the razor and examine its edge. Did Verity mean for him to have these, or just to see? He wondered for a moment, feeling touched that Verity would do either of those things. Emboldened by the gesture, and reasoning that Verity would need to shave eventually, Fitz finally asked in a rush: "Will you show me how? If you have the time."

    Verity smiled. There: he had known something would eventually make the boy ask. "Yes, I can show you how," he replied with something akin to pride buried within his tone. He took another drink and nodded at the large table. "First off, you most likely want to be sitting down. It makes for a steadier hand."

    Fitz sat obediently, bringing the things with him. He felt a bit ashamed for asking, but Verity had responded positively and even seemed a bit pleased, so he let himself relax.

    Verity set the mug down on the arm of his chair and made his way over to Fitz. "The mirror used to have a stand on it, but it was unfortunately broken off, though I can't remember how." He instead propped it up against a stack of books. "It's easiest with a bowl of water, as well. Makes it less likely to cut yourself." He filled an empty bowl from the tray and set it down beside the mirror, then taking the time to coach Fitz through the actions: to shave in the same direction his beard grew, which would become less erratic over time; and to wet the razor frequently, both to clean it and to make the next pass smoother. He did not do it for the boy, merely offered verbal support, and Fitz only managed to cut himself once. "If you have a cream of any kind," he advised him when he was finished, "it will take away the irritation of a fresh shave."

    Fitz held his handkerchief over the small cut he'd given himself and looked at himself in the mirror. That was much better, and it had been easier than he'd thought with Verity guiding his actions. He looked up at his uncle with gratitude. "Thank you," he said, wholeheartedly.

    "You're welcome," Verity returned with equal sincerity. He returned to his chair, again doing his customary sweep of the waters. "You can keep the items," he said distractedly. "I have others."

     "I'll come back for the tray in a while," Fitz decided. "Just in case you change your mind." He rose to go, and then remembered. "Was there something else you'd summoned me for? I don't object to doing it, but the page you sent to fetch me could have easily been sent to fetch your breakfast."

    "Can not a man wish to see his nephew?" Verity countered, somewhat saddened that Fitz had reason to believe all he was ever needed for were duties. "I enjoy your company, Fitz, and I hope you'll find the occasion to join me again tomorrow."

     Fitz considered the invitation and the feeling of being welcome. He considered too, how worn Verity seemed and how his Skilling seemed to eat away at him. He wished again that he could do something to help. "Tomorrow, then," Fitz agreed, offering his uncle a smile. Thinking back on their past encounters, few as they were, Verity had never failed to treat him well and had even made an effort to speak to him about his father. He hadn't appreciated the offer then, but a question rose to the front of Fitz's mind. It was an old one, one that he felt had probably been in his mind for some time. It had no context, and Fitz could see no reason why it would feel so important, but he asked it anyway. "Verity? Was my father very much in love with Lady Patience? She seems so different from what I've heard about him."

    Though the question was unexpected, it was not unwelcome. He turned to look at Fitz as he spoke. "He was so in love with her, Fitz, that no one could get through to him on any other matter for a very long time. The idea of marrying for politics was unfathomable for him, and throughout their entire courtship, she was all he would speak of." He chuckled. "Trust me, I knew nearly as much of her habits as Chiv did, so often did I hear of her." He had promised Fitz he would never ask him why he wanted to know something, and so refrained. He supposed it was because he had been quite close with Lady Patience before the test Galen had sent him on.

    Unbidden, another rare smile appeared on Fitz's face. "It must have been entertaining, at least. She's very unpredictable. It was difficult to get used to her at first, but she reminds me somewhat of the Fool." As he spoke the words, Fitz knew them to be true and the thought was a familiar one, though he didn't think he'd consciously made the comparison before.

    "Still close with the Fool, are you? Well, I suppose their eccentricities are similar, although I don't know him well enough to make a very good comparison." Verity felt a slight flash of guilt at that: he had intended to get to know the Fool better since him and Fitz had last spoken of it.

    Fitz bobbed his head in a nod. "He decorates his motleys himself, did you know? And he's recently taken to carrying about a stuffed rat on his sceptre. It's called Ratsy. I'm surprised that King Shrewd consented to their marriage," Fitz said, coming back to the topic of his father. "Lady Patience would be an odd choice for a queen." He had always heard that his father was a rather stoic man, who followed both the spirit and the letter of the law. He couldn't imagine such a person going against King Shrewd's will in the name of love.

    "I have noticed the rat," said Verity, "though I will admit I did not think much of its significance. Lady Patience as well used to adorn her own clothing with what she deemed...ah, how did she put it? 'More exciting,' yes, that was it. She seemed to find current fashions rather drab." He chuckled. "She would have been odd indeed, and this is why my father contested the marriage. But I think she had exactly the thing that Chiv needed most, and that came from her spontaneity."

    Fitz considered Verity's words, and thought about what those flashes of spontaneity and excitement would mean to someone like his father. "I think that I understand," Fitz said slowly. "Tomorrow, do you suppose you could tell me more about him?" With time, he'd found that most of his anger had faded. There was nothing to be done about the past now, but occasionally his curiosity would surface. It made him a bit sad to think that Patience could have been his mother, and that he could have known his father. He never would, but he felt that he should at least try to know who he'd been as a man, and not just as the person who'd seemingly ignored his existence.

    "I...yes, of course. As much as you would like to know, dear boy." Verity gave him a patronly smile, glad if not a bit curious about Fitz's change of heart. Then again, he was nearly a man now, and no doubt would have gained maturity over the years.

    "Thank you," Fitz said a bit awkwardly, "And for this as well," he held up the shaving things. "I'll return for your tray later. Please eat if you can manage it."

    "I will if I can, FitzChivalry," Verity assured him, closing his eyes and reaching out to the OutIslands once more. He was sure that the conversation had come to a halt, and Fitz could leave if he so chose.

 

_     “Fitz is still as bullheaded as any Farseer, removed as he is. This is most apparent in his shaving habits, or lack thereof. He takes immeasurable amounts of goading to do so, and oftentimes it is easier simply to force a razor into his hand and a chair beneath him.” _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	27. On Commencement and Companionship - Longing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deepest apologies for the wait for this chapter.

_The quiet, content moments of life are not often the ones that make it into the histories or the minstrel’s songs. They are some of my favourites, though. I’m lucky in that I’ve had many such days in this phase of my life. The Fool and I have found peace, or our kind of peace, at any rate. There are chickens in the yard, and the Fool’s carving on every available surface. We had some good, calm moments in our youths as well, though those were punctuated with so much to do with the war and dragons that they are easily overshadowed by them. Those were no less important, though. Moments such as those were what sustained me through many trying times._

 

    Life once again sought and found a rhythm for Fitz, and his summer days were spent killing at his king's command, and serving Verity. Fitz did not know whose idea it was originally, but since Verity had summoned him that first time, Fitz had been given the task of bringing Verity his meals. Occasionally, they would talk, but it happened increasingly often that Verity's attention would drift away toward the seas and Fitz would quietly excuse himself. It alarmed him the way Verity spent his strength so recklessly, while he could only watch helplessly and nag the man to eat.

    Fitz had also been given the care of Verity's hound, Leon, and took him out to hunt the wooded hills around the keep or to play in the gardens. It made Fitz miss Smithy acutely, and he wished he had been able to spend more time doing similar things with him before he had died. He quested out to Leon occasionally, and they could communicate but a bond was impossible. Leon's heart was fully Verity's. Fitz did not mind. He was not sure that he had much left to give after losing both Nosy and Smithy. The summer air was humid, and Fitz suspected that they would soon have rain, if not a storm. It had not begun yet, though, and so Fitz took Leon out to the gardens. The air was thick with insects, but it was better than being stuck indoors.

    The Fool was in the Gardens as well, trying to cheer the few nobles there were out. It was a humid and sticky day, and the many layers of fabric those of higher status were forced to wear were possibly the worst thing the Fool could imagine. Even he was overheating in his thin clothes, though he sweated considerably less than those around him. After pausing to have a brief conversation with Garetha, who had hailed him, the Fool continued on his way. He espied Leon first, and then noticed Fitz a few paces behind him. They had not spoken in some days, and the Fool happily made his way over, approaching Leon to give him a pat so that Fitz would have no choice but to stop.

    Fitz was a bit surprised to see the Fool. Bedecked as he was in his colourful layers, ribbons, and lace, Fitz thought that he would have preferred the indoors. He smiled to see his friend and watched while Leon inspected the scentless newcomer and then gave himself over to enjoyment of the attention, panting and drooling. "Hullo, Fool," Fitz greeted. It had been some time since he'd seen him, and Fitz was pleased.

    "Hello, Fitzy Fitz!" the Fool greeted, glancing at his friend approvingly. Every time he saw Fitz, he seemed to have progressed a little further from boy to man. This time it was the stubble that grew over his cheeks and chin, which even looked as if Fitz had made an effort to shave it. He tried not to look too long. "How fare you this fine day, princeling?"

    "Hot," Fitz said, honestly. "I hope that it rains soon, if only so that it might cool off a bit afterwards. Poor Leon's hot too. How are you?"

    “Equally as uncomfortable," the Fool admitted, "but not as bad as them." He inclined his head towards a pair of ladies walking by. He gave Leon a scratch behind the ears. "Poor boy, with all that extra hair," he remarked to the dog.

    Fitz gave the ladies a pitying look. "I don't know why everyone feels the need to dress up when the heat only makes them look wilted. Wouldn't it be better to be comfortable?" Fitz slapped at a mosquito. "We might be more comfortable somewhere with more wind, come to think of it. Would you like to come?"

    Every fibre of the Fool's being screamed 'Yes!' "Where did you have in mind?" he asked calmly, politely even.

    "Hadn't thought that far," Fitz admitted. Mentally, he ruled out all of the places where he had recently been killing Forged ones. They were invisible to his Wit, and hunting them had made him just a bit paranoid about being taken unawares. "There's the woods where Verity likes to hunt," Fitz suggested, "Or the beach." He didn't feel much like town. It always smelled a bit awful in the heat, even without Smithy's senses augmenting his own, and all of the people crowded in one place would make the humidity feel worse. "Unless you've any suggestions?"

    "The beach most certainly would be windy," the Fool admitted, though he was reluctant to go there. That would bring back too many unpleasant--rather, too pleasant--memories. "Perhaps somewhere higher up? A cliff or a bluff or something?"

    "We could climb up," Fitz agreed. "Molly showed me a good spot some time ago." That memory was a bit bitter now, and it surprised him how long he had gone without thinking of Molly. Granted, many of those days had been spent in a drunken haze, but even after the Fool had prodded him out of his stupor, it was as though his mind shied away from thinking of her. Ever since he had seen her hanging onto Jade's arm, with her head on his shoulder. Fitz pushed those thoughts away by patting Leon fondly on the back. "He can play on the beach while we climb. I think he'll enjoy himself."

    The Fool marked Fitz's disgruntled tone when speaking of Molly, and he wondered if the Heartbreak had already happened. "Have you and Molly quarreled?" he asked delicately as he started walking alongside his friend.

    Fitz winced a bit at the question, and then turned the expression to a scowl. “No. Not exactly. I saw her on the arm of another man, though. They looked quite happy.”

    Surprised, the Fool glanced at Fitz with a frown. Molly should not have left him until they had conceived an heir. Unless…”Did you bed with her?” the Fool asked.

    Fitz turned to stare at the Fool, shocked at the boldness of the question. "I--No. No, I haven't." He stammered and then felt the tips of his ears going red. Should he have been more forward with her? His blush darkened at the thought and he looked away again. "I can't blame her. I just wish she'd told me before finding someone else."

     "Oh." This meant, of course, that the Fool would have to once more push Fitz towards her. "I think there's still hope for you. As a matter of fact, I'm quite sure of it, if only you would speak to her of the matter."

    Fitz sighed. "That's kind of you to say, but what chance do I have? I'm a boy still, compared to him." As they left the gardens, the insects were fewer though the heat was no less oppressive. Fitz pushed a bit of sweat-sticky hair from his brow. "But it seems that all I do is pour my troubles on you, Fool. How have things been with you?

    "You're a man, for certain," the Fool assured him sincerely, struck again by the many changes Fitz had been subjected to and hoping he had not spoken too quickly. Luckily, Fitz had also seen fit to change the subject. "Much the same as they always have been," he responded. "It is only the people around me that change."

    Fitz looked at the Fool then, and studied how little he had changed over the years. He seemed the same as he ever had. His colouring, of course, was the same, but so too were the shape of his face, his delicate build, and the smallness of his stature. He had grown, but not as rapidly as Fitz had. Fitz could see no signs of hair upon his chin, nor any other evidence of him approaching manhood. Rather than it being odd, Fitz thought that the Fool looked just how he should, and he sought to reassure his friend. "Everyone matures at a different rate, or so I'm told. It's nothing that you should worry about."

    "Oh, I--" Fitz still took his appearance into account? That was something, at least. "I meant my habits, rather than my appearance. I meant that nothing much concerning my duties or experiences have changed, unlike yours." He paused. "But thank you."

    Fitz blushed at having spoken on the wrong topic. "Oh. Um, you're welcome. That your habits are the same is probably a good thing as well. Shrewd thinks your services valuable, so of course he would not seek to change them."

    "I...suppose you must be right," the Fool conceded. He fell silent, looking around to study the trees. This was one of very few occasions where he had no idea what to say to Fitz.

    "Did you know that Verity is to wed?" Fitz asked, conversationally. Silence between them had never felt wrong, but he found himself reluctant to stop their conversation.

    "Yes," said the Fool, taken abruptly from his thoughts. "Supposedly, the Mountain princess is to be his bride; I think it may have to do with the timbers we need for the warships."

    Fitz nodded, wondering when the Fool had come upon that knowledge, since he had not been present when Fitz and Verity himself had heard the news. Probably before, Fitz decided. The Fool seemed privy to most plans that King Shrewd concocted. "Yes, you're right on that account. I'm to accompany the party that goes to fetch her. Kettricken, her name is." Fitz said, and wondered what conclusion the Fool would draw from that statement.

    "I would have thought they might send someone with more experience," the Fool suggested delicately. He had heard half-formed plans between Shrewd and Chade, but he truly had thought that Chade himself would take on a task of such importance, or Lady Thyme at least. "Either way, I am certain you will...perform admirably." He could not say 'do well,' for there was nothing well or good about the assassination of another person.

    Of course the Fool had read correctly between the lines. Fitz was not surprised. "I've been trained for years, and done well so far. I suppose they think me up to it. It's not for me to question these things," Fitz said, "but it seems unfortunate that anything must happen at all. Is a marriage not sufficient?

    "I should think so," the Fool replied, "but sometimes, King Shrewd's actions are a mystery even to me. Perhaps, if nature takes the course on its own that you are intended to speed up, then you will be spared having to take action.”

    "Perhaps. I have heard that the prince is not well..." Fitz sighed and then pushed such dark thoughts aside. "I wonder what the girl will be like. If Regal had a hand in choosing her, I find myself wondering if she'll be at all suitable for Verity."

    "The Mountain folk are usually quite practical," the Fool observed. "I cannot imagine a princess of the blood would be anything but a representation of her people." Then again, Regal was a Prince of Six Duchies blood, and he was not a representation of Duchians.

    "I hope that you're right on that account," Fitz said. When they arrived at the beach, Leon was panting and deciding between playing in the waves and finding a spot in the shade to rest. Fitz left him to his decision and informed him that he and the Fool would be nearby. His eyes found the spot on the rocks where he and Molly had climbed and he led the Fool to it.

    The Fool had not been prepared to be faced with the beach again, and he stopped, seeking out and successfully locating a particular spot a short distance from the trees. He stared at it, and almost he could feel his lips tingle with the affections he had received there.

    "Fool?" Fitz asked, seeing that the Fool was distracted. "What's the matter?"

    "Fitz," the Fool said softly, then blinking and returning to the present. "Nothing. I simply thought I saw...something. Over there." He gestured at the spot, selfishly hoping that it might awaken an old memory within Fitz.

    Fitz walked closer, habit making him cast his eyes about for forged ones. He relaxed slightly when he saw none. "It seems like a good place to rest," Fitz observed. "Should we sit a while?"

    "No," the Fool protested, even as his heart leaped into his mouth. "Please, we ought to go up by the cliffs, as we had originally planned."

    Fitz raised his eyebrows at the Fool's reaction. "Well... Alright, then," Fitz said. "I only meant that if you were tired, we could take a break first. See? Even Leon is having a rest." He gestured to the wolfhound, who had apparently made his decision and found a patch of cool, shaded sand to rest on.

    "My discomfort at the heat outweighs my need for a rest," the Fool said cautiously. He looked up at the cliffs. "It is not much farther now, and the breeze seems to be nice up there."

    "Alright," Fitz agreed, approaching the cliffs. "Be careful not to fall," he cautioned. The climb was steep in places, and Fitz took his boots off, chucking them to the side.

    "I should think you run a greater risk of that than I!" the Fool retorted with some measure of friendly competition. He did not bother taking off his boots, instead scrambling up the cliff in an effort to beat Fitz.

    Fitz laughed, seeing the Fool make his nimble way up the cliff face. He should have known better. The Fool was nimble and lithe, so it was only natural that he would have no trouble on the rocks. Fitz hurried after, enjoying the bit of boyish competition.

    In his haste, the Fool had started his climb a good ten feet to the right of where the ledge on the cliff was located. Even when he had reached the proper height, he had to awkwardly climb horizontally across the cliff-face. When he got there, he sat himself on the ledge with satisfaction, enjoying the breeze that toyed with his hair and the view the perch offered.

    Fitz clambered up soon after, slower at the climb than the Fool was even with his mistake. He sighed in satisfaction, not much minding that the Fool had won. "I should have thought to bring us food and wine," Fitz thought aloud.

    "Nonsense," the Fool replied. "You could not have foreseen our meeting."

    Fitz was glad that at least the Fool had not ribbed him about his fondness for wine. It was not that he liked it, exactly, but it was cheap. "No, you're right," Fitz said teasingly, "But you could have, so I suppose I'll blame you."

    A surprised noise left him, and then the Fool giggled. So, it seemed Fitz was giving more credence to his gift of Prophecy once more. He felt oddly touched by it. "It doesn't quite work that way, but I will accept the blame nonetheless," he said.

    Fitz looked out at the sea. The grey sky was mirrored on its surface, and Fitz thought that it should have looked depressing. Instead, it seemed strangely beautiful. Ominous, though, Fitz thought as he took in the darkening clouds. They would be fine for a while, at least. It was nice to be away from the keep without killing people, and his journeys to town had stopped since Molly had shuttered the shop, and Kerry and Dirk had found occupations for themselves. Fitz felt grateful for the Fool's companionship. "I suppose you're right. I don't know much about it. Did you know that Chade had some interest in prophecy and divining the future for a time? He had hoards of scrolls and tablets strewn around...I didn't understand much of it though. His current fascination is with Elderlings," Fitz said with some humour, recalling that the Fool had once convinced him that he was an Elderling.

    The Fool gave Fitz a reproachful look, reprimanding him for speaking of Chade so openly again.. "I know there was a general interest taken in Prophecy," he answered after a moment. "I am afraid I must also accept the blame for that."

    Fitz ignored the Fool's displeasure. It was only the two of them out on the cliffs, after all. "You're to blame?" Fitz asked. "It took forever to tidy up the mess. Sometimes I think he's only taken an apprentice so that he doesn't have to clean up after himself." That was untrue, of course. Fitz knew why he had been taught all he had, and knew that he was putting it to good use. "One day he just got irritated and told me to put it all away. He hasn't mentioned it since."

    The Fool's cheeks tinged pink. "Yes, yes that most certainly was my fault," he admitted. "I'm sorry you had to clean it all up."

    "I'm not upset with you," Fitz reassured. "I was only joking. What happened? It's unlike him to give up on a topic until he thinks he understands it or something new catches his eye." Rather than that, Chade had seemed to brood for several days and he had no patience for Fitz's questions on the matter. The old scrolls still made little sense to Fitz, but he supposed that it was just as well. He did not know how anyone could make heads or tails of some of the prophecies he had seen written.

    "Well...I suppose it was because he knew he would never understand it," said the Fool. "He tried to ask me about it, but I evaded most of his questioning. And he did not seem to want to accept the answers I _did_ give him."

    "That would explain it," Fitz nodded. "He hates being unable to understand something. I think that he's still upset he wasn't allowed to learn to Skill."

    "Because he's a bastard?" the Fool asked. "I suppose that was why King Shrewd was reluctant to let you learn, as well." He realized he was getting close to an uncomfortable subject and steered the conversation away. "He might have been able to understand if he had listened."

    Fitz scowled. Since Verity had lifted Galen's Skill-misting, Fitz had only barely been able to hold himself back from seeking some form of revenge on Galen. Now that Galen had left the keep, that option was out of his reach. He pushed those thoughts aside with effort. "What did you tell him?"

    "Um..." the Fool pressed his lips together; he did not feel as though Fitz was ready to know yet. "I tried to explain the significance of my Dreams to him."

    Fitz nodded. A sudden gust of wind, stronger than the breeze they had been enjoying, tousled his hair and he shook it out of his face again before deciding that he might as well re-tie it. "I think that he might have been a bit jealous," Fitz confided. "He'd really like to be able to do some kind of magic. He's studied a lot, about all kinds of things, and he has even got a scrying bowl in his room. I don't know if he's any good with it."

    It was a shame that Fitz was confining his hair like that, but the Fool supposed it was more convenient. "Scrying is a useful magic, too," he said. "Sometimes knowing the present is much more useful than knowing the future”

    "I don't know if I'd want either, honestly," Fitz thought aloud. "Those magics are more about knowing, but I don't think that I could know without doing. When I saw through Smithy's eyes that someone'd attacked him and Burrich, I was glad that I knew, but I hated not being able to stop it."

    The Fool considered this. "To each their own then, I suppose," he conceded at last. He could not imagine not knowing.

    "To each their own," Fitz echoed. "Oh. You were right, by the way. I don't think that I told you. It turns out that I can Skill after all. Galen had convinced me that I couldn't." Fitz did his best to say those words calmly and without angering himself needlessly, but it was hard to keep his feelings out of the facts.

    The Fool looked up at Fitz in surprise. "What else did he do to you?" he asked, perhaps with too much vehemence. "I mean...did you remember anything else?"

    Fitz glanced at the Fool from the corner of his eye and then looked away, back out at the ocean. "I hate him, you know? He crippled my Skill, and he convinced me to kill myself. It was only my bond with Smithy that stopped me from throwing myself off the tower that night. I didn't remember any of it, for a long time, but since Verity lifted his Skill-influence over me, things rearranged themselves in my head and I knew what he'd done. Verity told me that I had strong walls in places that he couldn't break, so I know not what else could be wrong in my mind. It's frightening to think about."

    The Fool knew a few things that could be wrong in Fitz's mind, and it was in thinking of these things that his attention was pulled away from the conversation at hand to imagine things as they could have been. He stared blankly at his friend, nearly through him, before blinking rapidly. ‘ _The thing I hate most is that he made me lose something important.’_ The Fool heard the words so clearly that he thought they must have belonged to another Path: a better one where Verity’s attentions had removed whatever block Galen had put on Fitz’s memories. That was what he would have said, right before taking the Fool’s hand, maybe even kissing him. The rain would drive them back to the Keep eventually, but with both of their duties done for the day...

    Fitz had finished speaking nearly ten seconds prior, and the Fool looked away in embarrassment, his fingers coming up briefly to touch his lips, where he had imagined a gentle pressure. "I imagine it would be," was all he said.

    Fitz looked at the Fool again. "Apologies. I'm forever laying my problems at your feet, aren't I? Either I'll be able to fix it or I won't. Verity hasn't the time to teach me to Skill properly, so I suspect that I'll simply have to live with it. I only wanted to tell you so that you could know you were right."

    "I..." he sighed. He almost would have preferred not to know, so that he did not have to live with the fact that Fitz remembered everything except him. "Thank you."

    Fitz did not think that the Fool sounded very pleased to have been right, but he chose not to remark upon it. The topic was an unpleasant one. Below, Leon had roused himself from his resting place to bark at some seagulls. "Will you tell me more about your magic?"

    The Fool looked up at Fitz and again recalled the way Chade had been skeptical of his magic. He narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

    Fitz blinked, mildly taken aback by the Fool's reluctance. He supposed that he could not blame the Fool, though. He had called the Fool's dreams nonsense once. It felt like forever ago, but he knew that in reality it had not been long enough for that to have faded from the Fool's memory. He felt a new wave of shame at that and looked away. "I was curious. It was rude of me to be so dismissive before."

    The Fool nodded. There was every possibility that Fitz could have been lying, but the Fool had more or less always been able to tell. "What do you want to know?" he said in a much more open tone.

    "I know that you prefer knowing...but doesn't it make things difficult for you? Do you ever know that something terrible is going to happen and wish that you could stop it?" Fitz thought that it would drive him mad. Would he have bonded with Smithy if he had known that he would die? Would he have bothered to pursue Molly if he had known she would find someone else?

    The Fool regarded Fitz for a very long time, painfully aware of how much Fitz himself did not know, that the Fool did. "I do," he replied evenly. "But most of the time, these are things for which I must advocate, if there is to be hope for anyone."

    A rumble of thunder made Fitz look toward the sky. It had darkened considerably. "A few bad things for the greater good," Fitz interpreted, and privately he could see why King Shrewd and the Fool could get along so well. "Perhaps we should get down," he suggested reluctantly.

    "I suppose so," the Fool sighed, though he was not surprised at the turn of the weather; he had anticipated rain. He slipped off the ledge first, climbing down quickly and calling Leon to him while waiting for Fitz.

    Fitz clambered down more slowly than the Fool had done, being careful of his footing. He was agile enough, but not quite as comfortable as the Fool was with both feet off the ground. He hopped down the final drop and scratched Leon behind the ears, praising him for coming to the Fool's call. Leon looked at him mournfully, and Fitz knew that he would rather be adventuring with Verity. _He misses you too,_ Fitz reassured. "It would be nice if Verity could find the time to take Leon out himself. I enjoy doing it, but Leon would choose Verity over anyone in a heartbeat."

    The Fool smiled wistfully. "I know exactly how he feels," he mumbled, patting Leon's head reassuringly. "Don't worry, Leon. I'm sure Verity loves you." In that respect, the wolfhound was luckier than he.

    Fitz looked at the Fool, surprised by his tone. He wondered at it, thinking that perhaps the Fool would rather be enjoying his free time with someone else. The garden girl perhaps, or was there someone else? Fitz realized, while he thought about it, how little he knew of the Fool's personal life outside of their encounters. They had descended the cliff just in time, it seemed, for the few droplets of rain quickly became a shower that threatened to soak them both.

    The Fool blinked up at the sky in surprise, then looking to Fitz. "We should go!" he suggested, and took off like the wind, Leon loping behind him to eventually overtake him.

    Fitz hurried after them, pausing only long enough to rescue his boots. The trees, he thought, would shelter them somewhat, but he doubted that they would be anything less than completely sodden by the time they reached the King's Road.

    As it turned out, Fitz was right. The Fool stopped running when he got to the King's Road, because to do so would only tire him and cause the rain to pelt him harder. He was drenched, and so trudged home more than a little dejected.

    Fitz matched his pace to the Fool's, trudging along beside him. His clothes were drenched and clung to him awkwardly, and the rain shower had become a deluge. There was the occasional flash of lightning, and the hiss of the rain as it pelted the ground was a backdrop to the louder rumbles of thunder.

    When the trio finally reached the Keep, Leon shook himself out and drenched the other two in the process. After he had finished, the Fool took his hat off and wrung it out, and then turned a miserable gaze on Fitz. He was cold to the bone, and the rainwater had ruined some of the ribbons on his motley.

    Fitz was dripping, and did his best to ignore the disapproving looks from the servants and the nobility who'd had the better sense to stay indoors. "Sorry," Fitz mumbled. "I didn't think that it would rain quite so soon." He wiped some droplets of water out of his eyes. "Come on, let's get Leon back to Verity's quarters. I hope he's got some old towels I can use to dry him off."

    The Fool wrinkled his nose as the smell of wet dog floated towards him, and he nodded. "I hope so too."

    Fitz led the way, somehow finding it more uncomfortable to be wet indoors than it was to be wet outside. His clothes stuck to him in odd places, and no sooner had a place warmed from his body heat, than he moved and was confronted by a cold patch. He let the three of them into Verity's chamber and immediately began casting about for some old towels or blankets. He found several, which had probably been given to Leon to lay on, and selected one to rub the dog's coat down. Once he was sufficiently dried, Fitz bundled up the damp fabric and checked to see that Leon would have enough food and water to tide him over until Verity was done with his Skilling.

    The Fool did not dare to sit, for fear of getting anything wet, and yet a small puddle accumulated at his feet. He was standing on bare flagstones, however, so no lasting damage would be done. His arms were crossed over his chest miserably and he watched Fitz as he tended to Leon. Even drenched, he still managed to look beautiful: not just his face, but everything from his well-muscled legs to the smooth skin of his neck. The Fool sighed and cast his eyes down. It would be best not to look for too long.

    Once satisfied that Leon was as comfortable as he would be, Fitz turned to the Fool and looked him over with a frown. The Fool looked miserable. It was not terribly cold, but the air had cooled since the rain began and they were drenched. The Fool had always been more susceptible to the cold, and he was shivering alarmingly with a dejected expression. Fitz felt a pang of concern tinged with guilt and in his practical way, took one of the other blankets and put it across the Fool's shoulders. It smelled of Leon. "Let's go back to my chambers," Fitz suggested. "It's closer, and you look like you're freezing."

    "I've nothing to change into," the Fool remarked even as he pulled the blanket closer around him. It was neither clean nor soft, but it was warm and that was all that mattered.

    "You can borrow something of mine. It'll be better than walking about in those soaked things. Come on." Fitz expected little resistance, and he led the way again from Verity's chamber.

    The Fool nodded and followed after Fitz. His stockings made unpleasant squelching noises within his boots, and each step sent a jolt of cold up his spine. He was silent the whole way, and he kept his eyes on the ground.

    Fitz made a brisk pace up the stairs and to his room, and then ushered the Fool inside. It was difficult not to feel guilty for the state the Fool was in, but he covered that by finding a towel for the Fool to dry himself with, and then using it to rub the Fool's hair dry, much the same way he'd done to Leon's fur.

    The Fool giggled and bent his head, making it easier for Fitz to reach. Once he was dry, he shook his head and his hair stood out all around it in crazy spikes.

    Fitz looked at the Fool and was still far from satisfied, but he could not help but chuckle at the Fool's ridiculous hair. He draped the towel over the Fool's shoulders. "I'll find you some clothes to borrow, alright?" He didn't wait for an answer before going to rummage through his trunk. He had never been able to keep it organized, but he had few enough possessions that it never caused him a problem. He withdrew a shirt that had become a bit short in the arms for him, and a pair of trousers that he'd likewise outgrown.

    The Fool eyed the clothing critically. He was shorter than Fitz, but his arms and legs were a little longer than average. Regardless, he would most likely be able to fit into them, however. "Thank you," he said. "Please turn around."

    Fitz obeyed and, with very few options to look at, was unfortunately confronted with the tapestry of King Wisdom and the Elderling. It had never become any less strange to him. "Fool, do you remember when you told me that you were an Elderling?" Fitz asked, reminded of the jest.

    "Yes," the Fool laughed, peeling off his wet clothes. He studied Fitz's back and the set of his shoulders, and spared a glance for the tapestry itself. "You didn't even know what it was, when I told you."

    "Knowing didn't make it any less disturbing," Fitz made a face at the tapestry, listening to the sounds of the Fool undressing. "I had a few nightmares about it as a child, but I can never be bothered to get rid of it."

    The Fool frowned. "Not when I was here, though?" He would hate to have been beside Fitz and not even have known. He pulled the trousers on first, but they were a little loose on his slender waist. After rapidly donning the shirt, he said: "I need a belt."

    "No, I don't remember dreaming at all those times. There's one in the chest. Would you like me to get it for you?" Fitz didn't dare to turn around before he'd received permission.

    "Um, I'll be alright." Holding up the trousers with one hand, he rooted through the chest with the other. He pulled a belt out and swiftly tied it, but underneath it was revealed a braided and embroidered piece of silk, which the Fool had given to Fitz during their courtship. He had thought the colours went well together and so had artfully combined them, and Fitz had even tied his hair up with it once. "Fitz?" he asked quietly, holding it up. "Do you remember this?"

    Fitz took this to mean that he could turn to look, and he did so, happily breaking his staring contest with the Elderling. He looked at the small band in the Fool's grip and felt a strange uneasiness. He stepped closer and took it before he was aware that he had formed the intention to do so, and then held it in his closed hand close to his body. Realizing how strange that thoughtless action must have seemed, Fitz forced himself to relax. "Yes, of course I do. It's mine," he answered, a bit defensively.

    "Well..." The Fool looked down at the clothes that hung loosely on his frame. He had always been much skinnier than Fitz. "I know it is," he said, "but I was just wondering if you had remembered where it had come from."

    Fitz opened his mouth to say that of course he did, but he stopped himself and frowned. He opened his palm to look down at the interwoven strands of silk. "Well...no," Fitz realized, "I don't. But I like it." He liked it very much, and he had felt almost alarmed to see the Fool holding it, though it was a ridiculous thing to be concerned about. He had so few possessions that he felt that he ought to know from where he had gotten it, but there was nothing when he searched his recollection.

    "Oh," said the Fool. He paused. "Well, I think it's pretty," he continued after a moment. He would have to be careful not to wear the motley from which the ribbons had come ever again. He did not want to have to lie about the context of the gift.

    Fitz looked troubled for several moments before he shook his head. "You can borrow it if you like. I don't know why I took it from you."

    The Fool shook his head. "No, it's yours," he maintained, and managed a half-hearted smile. "You should put it in your hair."

    "Let me dry it off first," Fitz protested. He was still dripping a bit, and though he was not as troubled by the drenching as the Fool had been, he was still uncomfortable.

    The Fool nodded, turning to distractedly look out the window. Being in Fitz's chambers felt surreal to him after his fantasy of what-could-have-been on the beach, and he constantly had to remind himself to separate the two.

    Fitz nudged the Fool out of the way to dig some dry clothes out of his chest, and then changed out of his wet clothes. They had warmed somewhat from the heat of his body, and he felt a bit chilled after removing them. The dry clothes became somewhat damp once he pulled them on, but the day had been an oppressively hot one, and so he did not mind terribly. "You can turn around, if you like, Fool," Fitz said, and he untied the leather thong from his hair.

    The Fool did turn around, and a small, sad noise issued from his throat at the sight of Fitz's beautiful hair, untamed and just waiting to be touched. He turned the sound into a cough, however, and clasped his hands behind his back.

    Fitz took the cloth from beside his wash basin to rub the worst of the water out of his hair, and then took up the braided silk to tie it back. "Like so?" Fitz asked, feeling a bit silly.

    The Fool smiled wistfully. "Yes. Like that." Just as an excuse to touch Fitz, he took his shoulders and turned him towards the looking glass above the washbasin, and then turned his head. "See?"

    Fitz looked at himself and felt a twinge of self-consciousness. The colours of the silk paired well together, and the embroidery was elegant. It seemed out of place on him, though. Fitz had always felt uncomfortable in the elaborate formal garments that were favoured in court, but this was different. Aside from the bright colours and the way they stood out from the muted tones of his clothing and his dark hair, the band was strangely important to him. It felt too personal to be worn where anyone might see it. He touched it lightly and met the Fool's eyes in the looking glass. Out of everyone in his life, the Fool was one who knew him the most completely. After sitting with the initial discomfort for a moment, he felt himself relax. The Fool, he felt, was safe.

    The Fool smiled at Fitz in the mirror, and for a moment allowed himself to hold that tableau in his mind, taking joy in the way the two seemed a solid pair in the reflection. The Fool thought they looked as though they belong together. "Bright colours look better on smiling folk," he chided gently.

    Fitz smiled, embarrassedly. "They look well on you," Fitz rejoined. "Perhaps because you're always making jests. I don't think that they suit me as well."

    "I think anything could suit you, if you've a mind for it," said the Fool, patting Fitz's cheek. "One day, I shall convince you to dress in the most vibrant colours the court has ever seen, and you will know I am right then."

    Fitz privately wished the Fool luck with that, because he doubted that he would ever wear such clothing willingly. "I think I'll take this off and let my hair dry," Fitz said, and carefully untied his hair.

    The Fool nodded once, and stepped back to let Fitz move past him. He glanced to the window again. "You know, they say rain is a blessing from Eda, to allow the crops to grow. I wonder what it is she blesses this day."

    Fitz came to stand beside the Fool. Chade had never taught him reverence for any gods, not even Eda or El, but he found that he thought the rain to be a blessing as well."A storm such as this will surely keep the raiders from our shores for a short while. Verity will be able to rest. I'm sorry that we got caught in it, though. Have you warmed up at all?"

    A small smile stole over the Fool's lips as he considered the body heat Fitz provided, even standing those few feet from him. "Yes, I have. Thank you." Sighing, he turned away from the window and gathered up his wet clothes. "I wish you the best of luck with Verity, Fitz. And...Molly too."

    "Thank you, Fool," Fitz replied, though he doubted that he would have any luck with Molly. She had Jade, he thought with some bitterness.

    The Fool well heard Fitz's defeat, and it cut him to the core. He turned back, and went up on his toes to press a cool kiss to Fitz's brow. "You have my blessing," he said, then nodding to the window, "as well as Eda's. Your heart is true, and I believe anyone you set your sights on could fall for you." Before emotion could overtake him completely, the Fool turned and left.

    Fitz was left alone; the feeling of the Fool's cool kiss lingered longer than he had. Fitz shook his head. He had little care for the gods, but he had a fool's blessing at least. It seemed more appropriate for his life, he thought, and he wondered what fortune it would bring him.

 

_“Over the years, there have been many occasions when I could feel the diverging paths before me, although I was not the one that was supposed to travel along them. My duty has always been only to anticipate the forks in the road and identify which one was correct. However, these events multiplied in Fitz’s presence._

_“By reading through his writings, I have discovered that Fitz almost always dismissed these moments as ‘a long stare from the Fool,’ or some such thing. By reading through my writings, he has discovered that what they really were were fantasies--futures with little possibility of happening, at best. Every time our conversation lagged, or I took too long in answering something I should have found the words to right away, I found myself thinking of what would happen in that moment if I dared to confess my love to him or he decided to kiss me._

_“For a time in my life, those fantasies were all that allowed me to retain hope and optimism for the future I was trying to shape.”_

_\--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet_


	28. On Commencement and Companionship - Tribulations

_     When asked to describe a dear friend, relative, or lover, most people, I think, would not be given pause. They would easily find the words to accurately and wholly describe the object of their affection. I cannot, and I don’t believe I will ever be able to, describe Beloved without stumbling over my own words, contradicting myself at least twice, or rambling on at such length that I seem a madman. As the Fool, he always prided himself on an air of mystery. As I have come to know Beloved, I’ve discovered that he will perhaps always retain some amount of mystery to me. I can best describe (and here I prove my own point) him as an entire world. Perhaps you can come to know a city, a duchy, a country. Then you visit another that is entirely different, but no less wonderful. Always there is something new to discover, and no matter how much you learn, there is always more waiting to be revealed and delighted in. _

_     It’s by learning these things about Beloved that I have come to fall in love with him over and over again. Him as a whole and all of his aspects. When I reach the end of my map, a whole other landscape spreads out before me. I could spend a lifetime exploring him. I plan to. _

 

    Fitz carefully shut the door to the Fool's chamber behind him, and stepped back out into the stairway. It felt as though he returned from another world: one of colour, warmth, and art. The landing felt very grey and close after so much light and air. The small fish in their bowls, the flower stretching toward the light by the window, and the perfect clay babe in the cradle all spoke of possibility. The bright colours and suggestions of a summer day whispered of hope. It was an oddly optimistic room for one so seemingly cynical as the Fool. Fitz knew him to be infinitely more kind than most in the keep would suspect, and far more warm than the touch of his icy skin. His chamber had still been a surprise, though. Fitz felt both awed and guilty as he descended the stairs. He hoped it would not show on his face when he finally found the Fool.

    The Keep was far emptier without the pollution of Regal's parties, and the Fool found he had more time to himself, as well as for each other person within the Keep. Recently, the younger generation of children had taken an interest in him, and he was sitting cross legged in their midst, dazzling them with rapid juggling. He had started with four balls, but he pulled more seemingly from nowhere and he now had nine. They were simple wooden things, but he had painted them bright colours to entrance the eye and distract from sorrow. The children were enrapt, so much so that none even tried to pluck the balls from the air as they might normally have done.

    It was after much wandering that Fitz found the Fool surrounded by children and busy at his work. Fitz hovered awkwardly nearby and watched. He felt a bit pathetic for having no-one else to seek for company, and a bit silly for joining the young audience, even at a distance. As a child, he'd spent more time with the Fool alone than watching his performances. Now, he wished that he'd made time. The Fool was talented- how could he not be after all the years? Fitz admired the easy grace with which he managed his tricks. The colourful balls put Fitz in mind of the beauty of the Fool's room, and he knew then that he'd had a glimpse of the other boy's heart. Not wanting to disturb the Fool, Fitz was content to watch.

    The Fool, however, immediately caught sight of Fitz. How could he not, when his Catalyst's presence always sent a jolt through his heart? He smiled at Fitz and wiggled his eyebrows, bading his friend watch. One by one, the juggling balls left their cycle as he tossed one to each of the children, who caught them with stunned and awed expressions. The Fool gave the group a wink, rolled to his feet, and leapt nimbly over the heads of a pair of girls to make his way over to Fitz.

    Fitz found himself clapping as he watched the Fool approach, and he knew that he smiled though he knew not what it looked like. He thought of the Fool's doll, so lovingly cared for, and of the way the Fool took joy in making the children laugh, and wondered if he could see the warmth of those thoughts reflected in his gaze. Fitz couldn't help it. It was as though he saw his friend with fresh eyes, and he was both familiar and more. Fitz cleared his throat. "Well done, Fool. I hope that your audience isn't terribly disappointed that you've stopped."

    The Fool stopped further from Fitz than he had intended. Something was different. Fitz had not looked at him in that manner since...the Fool frowned and shook his head. He was most likely imagining it; he dreamed of their love so often that it was becoming difficult to separate it from reality. "No," he said, tossing Fitz the last ball. "I'm sure they'll be alright." He glanced over his shoulder to see the children taking turns trying their own hands at juggling.

    Fitz caught the ball and looked at it. It had been painted Buck-blue, but with gleaming silver stars and abstract shapes so that the effect was that of a night sky glimpsed through the boughs of a tree. "Did you paint this?" he asked, though he already suspected that the answer was yes. He wondered when the Fool would have seen such a view, and whether the memory had been a good one. 

"I did," the Fool said, pride overshadowing his doubt. He wondered how much astrology Fitz knew, and whether he would be able to correctly identify the constellation of the young lovers painted in the mock-sky. "Do you like it?"

"It's beautiful," Fitz replied honestly, unable to keep the emotion from his voice. "You could have been a painter, if you were not a fool." Or many other things, Fitz reflected. The Fool was well-learned, and had a gift for the telling of stories. He could have been an artist or a minstrel, Fitz thought, remembering the tune the Fool had hummed for him. In his mind, it was accompanied by an instrument and he wondered if he would be able to reproduce it on the pipes Lacey had given him.

    "Could I not be both?" the Fool challenged wryly, somewhat defensively. He waved his hand at the ball. "If you like it, keep it. They did." He nodded once more at the children and then turned his attention fully to Fitz. He thought of the many ungiven gifts in his chambers, and thought that this one could perhaps make up for one or two of them.

    Fitz gave the Fool an apologetic look. "You are both, really. This is wonderful, thank you."

    The Fool nodded, softening. "You're welcome." He finally met Fitz's eyes fully, and he saw none of the tender look he had before espied there. He concluded that he truly must have imagined it. "You are leaving soon, are you not?"

"I am," Fitz confirmed. "Tomorrow. Of course, it will take some time for everyone to assemble, so it will probably not be until afternoon. I..." How could he explain that he'd felt compelled to find the Fool? That he'd indeed wandered most of the keep in search of him? He decided that he could not without seeming pathetic. "I suppose I just wanted to tell you goodbye in case we don't see one another before then."

    The Fool regarded Fitz for a long time, even as the thought of any harm befalling him wilted his good spirits. "We must," he said. With none of Fitz's reservations about verbal affection, he added: "I do not know what I would do without you. Perhaps go sane again," he teased with a grin, realizing after the words had left him that they were definitely too overt.

    Fitz laughed. "I think that you're more sane than many of the folk in the keep..." He shifted awkwardly on his feet while he let the jest fade. He didn't know what he would do without the Fool either. He was his dearest friend. That the Fool held him in equal regard was touching. It suddenly struck Fitz that he would not be seeing the Fool for some time. They'd gone days and weeks without seeing one another before, but always they'd had the option. Coupled with having seen so much of the Fool's soul bared in the contents of his room, this thought made Fitz feel doubly bereft. "I'll miss you," Fitz confessed. "Do you have time?"

    The Fool flicked his eyes up in surprise, his heart skipping a beat. "Now?" he asked, stupidly. Of course Fitz meant now. He made a great show of looking around the empty room. "I'm not sure. Can you not see the great crowds that await me?"

    Fitz gestured wide with his arms. "They await your next performance," he played along. "It would be callous of me to deprive the ghosts of their entertainment."

    The Fool grinned, glad that he could finally break Fitz of the cloud of misery that had recently seemed to haunt him. It had been a hard road to get him to laugh lately. "Would you mind?" he called out to the emptiness, then putting a hand to his ear as if to hear their answers. Satisfied, he nodded to Fitz. "They tell me to go with their blessing."

    Fitz smiled. In anyone else, such behaviour would be seen as madness. For the Fool, it was usual. Such playfulness was as much him as were the wry jests and cynical comments on the habits of the nobility. And the carefully tended flower by the windowsill, and the small collection of seemingly random but beautiful things, Fitz added to himself. "You didn't bring Ratsy with you today?" he queried, looking to see if he'd missed the sceptre somewhere.

"Hm? No," the Fool answered. "No, I fear he doesn't juggle very well," he laughed.

"He wouldn't, would he? Shall we go down to the gardens, or perhaps out to the woods?" It was the time of year in which they might find berries to eat, and the idea of being outside of the keep walls was tempting. It was a hot day, too, and though Fitz found the shade inside of the keep to be somewhat more comfortable, the outdoors would offer a breeze and at least the illusion of freedom.

"Perhaps the gardens," the Fool decided. He had not been back to the forest since the time the two of them had run into the Forged, and he had no desire to go back there now, when they might have been more rampant.

    Fitz wondered what other boys his age might occupy their time with. He thought of the young nobility who spent their days hunting, idling, or gaming. He thought of the other keep children who might use their free days to venture into town or play simple games in the grounds outside. He didn't know many games. The only ones he'd learned had been taught to him by Chade, and he doubted that the Fool would enjoy them. "Do you know how to play any games, Fool?" It seemed like a silly question as soon as he'd asked it.

    The Fool laughed. "Of course I do." Drawing himself up as tall as he could, he announced in a deep stage-voice. "For I am the master of games in this Keep: I run with children, and gamble with kings, and dice with shadows. My hands were made for cards as well as stones, and all know--" He dropped the intonation and giggled at Fitz with a wink-- "I can certainly beat  _ you. _ "

    Fitz blushed. The Fool was probably correct. "I thought- well, perhaps we could play something? I don't really know any games, but if you..." Fitz trailed off, feeling foolish. He didn't know what had prompted such a childish desire in him. Surely he was passed the age where he should be asking someone to play a game with him. He envied the children who had clustered around the Fool watching with unabashed awe while he juggled. Was it just that he felt he'd missed something in his youth? Ashamed, he looked away and then glanced back at the Fool. He had seemed nothing but enthusiastic about the request, and had made no move to mock him for it.

    The Fool frowned and patted his pockets down. "I've nothing on me," he said softly, "but I have a proposition for you." He nudged Fitz's leg with his knee. "When you come back from the Mountains, we will play whatever you wish. Your reward for staying alive." The Fool thought perhaps if he jested of the fatality of the mission, it might lessen the dread. He was wrong.

    Fitz felt relieved at the offer and relaxed somewhat. "When I return then," he smiled, and then gave the Fool a funny look. "But it is not my death that I'm concerned with at the moment, so to congratulate me on being alive seems a strange thing when you could simply welcome me back."

"Oh." The Fool realized he had said too much again. "Well, any mission has some measure of danger," he recovered. "One cannot be too careful, and it is only natural for me to worry about you."

    Fitz gave the Fool a small smile and nudged his arm. "I suppose I cannot fault you for that. Shall we go to the gardens, then? Or somewhere quieter?"

"The gardens," the Fool said once more. He had been inside all day, and he had not checked up on his flowers in a long while.

    Fitz nodded and led the way. None in the keep batted an eye at seeing them together, though the Fool's outlandish appearance never failed to catch the eye of anyone passing by. Fitz noticed a few of the laundresses looking pointedly away, and he recalled a small rumour that had spread about it being bad luck to catch the Fool's attention. Fitz could not help but scowl at them.

 Of course, the Fool had heard these rumours too, and so he pointedly called to the women by name and waved at them. He was delighted at their fearful expressions, and had always found the superstitions regarding him humourous. "They would turn away from King Shrewd if the right tongue spoke of a curse upon him," he remarked to Fitz.

    Fitz continued to glower. "I don't understand how they can treat you that way. They have not even the excuse of ignorance, for one has been here the last four years, and the other since she was a girl. If they would turn away from King Shrewd as well, I fear for the whole of the kingdom." It never failed to irritate him when people spoke ill of or behaved poorly toward the Fool. He gave a short sigh. "It's good that you handle such things with humour, though."

"How else am I to handle them, Fitz? I have not the option of hiding myself in my chambers, nor of lashing out at them. And if I took such reactions to heart, why I would end up more miserable than you within a fortnight!" He laughed, but it did not really sound as if he was mocking Fitz.

    Fitz gave the Fool a considering look. It was probably true, and Fitz felt some sadness for the boy who held such colour, vibrance, and kindness in his heart but was shunned for his differences. It didn't seem right. Fitz had grown used to being ostracized by the bulk of the nobility and had endured some of the mockery of his birth, but he had never had people fear his very gaze. Outdoors, the sun was bright and warm. It was the beginning of the harvest season, and the air had not yet lost the heat of summer. "I still wish that they would not do it," Fitz grumbled. "You've done nothing to deserve their superstitious fear."

    The Fool took a deep breath, letting the warmth of the sun flood him and spreading his arms wide to absorb it all. When he opened his eyes, they seemed a brighter blue for just a moment. "As long as you are not afraid of me, Fitz, I couldn't care less what anyone else says."

"I couldn't be afraid of you," Fitz said, squinting a bit in the sunlight until his eyes adjusted. Most of the denizens of Buckkeep castle who had the option of remaining indoors seemed to have chosen to do so, because the grounds were relatively quiet. The following morning, the courtyard would be abuzz with activity while the wedding group made their preparations to depart on the weeks-long journey to the Mountains. For the time being, though, Fitz enjoyed the relative peace. "You're my dearest friend, and have been for years."

    The Fool looked at his feet with a quiet sigh. "I know, Fitz..." he said gently. "And I hope I never give you cause to doubt that."

"I doubt that you could," Fitz said, wondering what could possibly make him doubt the Fool. It would surely have to be something monstrous. The Fool was intensely private, but the small things that Fitz had learned about him over the years had only increased his certainty that the Fool was incapable of such a betrayal. He'd learned even more today, he recalled, and felt another wave of guilt over that. What sort of a friend was he to have taken that knowledge knowing that the Fool would not have offered it? He thought of confessing his crime to the Fool, but the thought of angering the Fool stilled his tongue. Perhaps his trespass would go unnoticed. He felt ashamed of his cowardice.

    The Fool smiled wanly. "I think you may come to doubt me, later in your life. I think you may even turn away from me for a time. I hope this does not come to pass, but if it does, please know that I shall be waiting with open arms when you return."

    Fitz furrowed his brow at the odd comment. "Well," he said, "If you did, I'm sure that I couldn't be upset with you for long. We've had too long a friendship for that." Even the gardens were quiet that day, and Fitz was glad of the lateness of the season that meant the biting insects were few. It was unfortunate that most of the summer blossoms had already gone, but a few late-blooming plants remained to lend their colour to the surroundings.

As they passed by one still-vibrant bank of flowers, the Fool picked one--a bright, summery pink--and tucked it behind his ear. It clashed with the green and yellow he was wearing, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. After putting it in place, he grinned at Fitz, privately hoping he might comment.

    Fitz huffed a laugh and shook his head at the Fool's silliness. He admired the way the Fool could do such things so unselfconsciously. "Will not your garden-girl friend object to you picking the flowers?" Her name escaped him for the moment, but he recalled that he'd meant to ask if the Fool were courting her. He looked at the Fool and wondered. It was difficult to imagine.

"Garetha? I doubt she would notice the absence of but one flower. And even so," he grinned, "she might think it makes me look pretty." He recalled that Fitz had once called him pretty, and the thought brought a faint blush to his cheeks, complementing the pink of the flower.

    Fitz's eyebrows rose at the faint blush on the Fool's cheeks. "Perhaps she might..." Fitz said, feeling rather shocked. So, the Fool was not immune to the charms of girls. Was he courting Garetha, or did he merely hope that she might be interested? Fitz found that he had to reorder his idea of the Fool in his mind, and it was a bit disorienting. He blushed to think that the Fool might one day take her as a lover, if he had not already. It was incredibly difficult to envision. Going a step further, could he imagine the Fool happily married? It took a moment to wrap his head around the notion, but he decided that he could. The Fool did not strike him as the sort to have a score of lovers, private as he was. He would probably devote himself entirely to her. But what if she were to tire of him? It would probably hurt the Fool deeply, and Fitz felt a surge of protectiveness. It was ridiculous, though, and he was getting ahead of himself. He pushed the thoughts away.

    That was not the response for which the Fool was hoping, but he supposed it was for the best that Fitz had not paid him any compliments. The blush subsided, and he looked more thoughtful than before. The two of them walked in silence as they made their way over to the side of the castle in order to check on the small garden the Fool had cultivated.

The space had seemed a large one when they'd been children, but now it would be better described as cosy. It was not a cramped space; just one that was too narrow for most other people to bother exploring it. Fitz felt a bit nostalgic as they approached the small sanctuary. The Fool had continued to tend to the small space carefully, and had filled it with flowers of his choosing. Fitz wondered about the rabbits in their small burrow, and he quested out cautiously. They'd always seemed a bit nervous of him, but he kept his questing small and gentle. Fitz frowned and then blinked when he found the small, warm life amongst the cooler and more elusive birds. It was like a candle flame in a breeze. There was only one, and when he quested further, he felt both pain and alarm. He blinked and nearly stumbled. Instantly alert, he felt felt around them for some threat, but found none. His next thought was that he should warn the Fool.

    The Fool had instinctively slowed his pace, knowing that to tread too hard would frighten the rabbits; he was used to moving cautiously around his garden. However, something felt off today. He stopped and turned to ask Fitz if he too, felt something, and was stricken by the expression on his friend's face. "Fitz?"

    Fitz grimaced and shook his head, breaking the connection. "Your rabbit's hurt," Fitz said, then continued, thinking to spare the Fool from seeing the animal's pain: "Stay here and let me go see if I can help." Fitz was not optimistic. He'd felt the way the small creature's life had flickered. He hoped that the other had fled and not been carried off by some predator bold enough to enter the castle grounds.

"They're not my rabbits..." the Fool mumbled, but he had taken off before the words left his mouth. He had cared for the rabbits for years, and he counted them among his friends. It was disconcerting to think of any harm befalling them, and so when he saw their small bodies littered about and the red blood against the grass, a choked gasp left him.

    Fitz winced and hurried after the Fool, the smell of blood was immediately obvious to him and he frowned as he looked on the small bodies. He saw the rabbit he'd failed to sense laying dead on the grass, and he saw the other taking small panting breaths as its body struggled to cling to life. Fitz knelt down next to it and quested out again, prepared this time for what he would sense. He knew at once that the tiny body was beyond repair, but he reached out with calm and peace to try to soothe away the fear. An animal would have dragged the bodies away unless it had been startled, but Fitz put aside his desire to know what had happened for the moment. He looked at the Fool, conveying with his gaze that he was sorry. The rabbit's belly had been opened to expose its innards, and it would probably not live much longer. It was an awful way to go.

    The Fool did not even register Fitz's reaction. He gaped in dismay at the gruesome display, his gaze lingering on the wounds each rabbit had sustained. The eldest had died long ago, but the three of the second generation had now perished as well: the dark-furred one that had always been the least shy had had its throat savaged; the small, lighter brown one appeared to have had its neck snapped and then been tossed away, crumpling against the wall; the large dark one was nowhere to be found. Even the newest additions to the family were dead. The runt of the litter--the white one--looked as though it had tried to run and been chased down, nearly torn limb from limb. The one by which Fitz was kneeling was still alive, but even the Fool could tell it would not last. He could see the distress in its eyes, and it brought tears to his own.

    Fitz did not know if the Fool would forgive him if he granted the rabbit a quick death, though it would have been a mercy. Instead, Fitz held their Wit-connection and did his best to ease the poor thing's suffering. He wrapped the small, frightened mind in thoughts that were warm, and safe, and good and did his best to keep the dying animal's pain separate from his own experience. "Would you like me to tell him anything?" Fitz asked with some difficulty.

    "I..." The Fool slumped down beside the dying animal and put his hand gently on its back, trying to offer a similar physical comfort to Fitz's mental one. He blinked rapidly, but even that was not enough to stop his tears from falling. One dropped onto the rabbit's fur and he sniffled. "Fitz..."

    Fitz thought nothing of putting his arm around the Fool in order to offer some comfort. When the rabbit finally stilled, and Fitz felt the small life go like a bubble popping, he turned his mind toward the Fool as well. He looked crushed, and understandably so. Fitz knew the pain of having lost his Wit-partners, and while the Fool's bond with his rabbits was different, it was no less important. The Fool had loved his rabbits, though he insisted again and again that they weren't his, and he had seen these grow from kits. The tears the Fool shed tugged painfully at his heart.

When the final breath hissed from the rabbit, the Fool burst into sobs, bringing his hands up to cover his face. He bent in on himself, but he took some measure of comfort from Fitz's warm arm around him. He leaned in towards his friend, but was quite sure he might have collapsed without his solid presence there.

    Fitz did not tell the Fool that it would be alright, or any other supposedly comforting platitudes because it was not alright. The Fool's rabbits were dead, killed quite horribly, and so of course he would be distraught. Fitz pulled the Fool into an embrace and let him cry. It was a horrible thing to happen to them, and to the Fool. Fitz kept one hand solidly on the Fool's back and with the other, stroked the hair that peeked out from the bottom of the Fool's hat in what he hoped was a soothing manner.

After a few moments of this, the Fool sat up and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He looked at Fitz, his expression was so fragile that it seemed as though a single word might break him all over again. "I called him Fitz," he whispered, glancing briefly at the rabbit's body beside them.

Oh. Fitz looked down at the rabbit whose mind he'd touched and then back at the Fool. He wanted to say something, anything, to help, but he knew that he was clumsy with words. He felt that he owed it to the Fool to try. "I made sure that he wouldn't feel the pain, those last few minutes. He could feel your hand, though. I think he was glad of the comfort." Looking at the Fool's misery written plain on his face, Fitz thought that the distance between them felt wrong and he put his hand on the Fool's shoulder. How any in the keep could fear or despise him, Fitz did not know. The Fool was full of so much beauty, feeling, and love, Fitz did not know how others failed to remark upon it.

    The Fool nodded, sniffling. "That does not negate his death," he mumbled. He dropped his head back onto Fitz's shoulder, trying to ignore the death around him. He could not help but cast his eyes about, however, and his gaze landed on a small gap between the stones of the wall. He stiffened, his eyes narrowing. "There."

"What is it?" Fitz asked, looking around and then questing out just in case.

"Whatever did it got in through there." The Fool stood and strode to the gap in the wall, his fists clenched. He normally hated confrontation, but something had hurt his loved ones, and for that there was no forgiveness.

    Fitz frowned and then rose, going to join the Fool by the gap in the wall. He knelt to peer through, and then wondered what creature would have done it based on the size of the opening. He had not ruled out the possibility of some cruel nobleman letting his hunting cat or hound have at them for sport. "I sensed nothing with my Wit, so whatever it was did not linger long," Fitz said gently.

"You didn't ask him?" the Fool asked desperately. "I don't suppose you would have...and he would not have wanted to relive it." He sighed, kneeling by the hole and sticking his arm through. "Do you think it happened at night?"

"Or possibly early morning," Fitz said. It was when rabbits were more likely to be found out of their burrows, and he knew too that many predators preferred the hours of early night or morning for their hunting. Fitz watched the Fool's investigation of the gap in the wall and turned his own attention to the grisly scene. He could try to hazard a better guess as to the culprit if he examined the bite marks, but he wasn't sure what use it would be now. He put his hand on the Fool's shoulder again. "Fool... Would you like us to have a funeral for them?"

    The Fool whipped his head around to regard Fitz. "Would you want that for yourself? They have suffered enough, and they deserve only to be laid to rest." He looked down, ashamed at his outburst. "Just let them rest, Fitz," he whispered, voice breaking.

"Very well, Fool," Fitz said evenly, kneeling down next to his friend. He wondered what culture the Fool came from, and if they did not burn their dead as they did in the Six Duchies. He wasn't sure what else to offer, and so he let himself be a quiet presence.

    The Fool stood again and walked back to the den, peering inside to be sure all the rabbits were gone. He then dutifully retrieved the corpses and laid them inside, not even looking at Fitz as he went about his solemn task. He even gathered the scattered pieces of the small brown rabbit and tucked them inside. His hands were coated in blood when he was finished, but he filled in the entrance with the soil from around his flowers and then arranged the flowers themselves on a mound. The task done, he stood and walked away from the grave. Fitz could follow if he chose

    Fitz watched the Fool at his bloody task, feeling a small bit horrified but mostly useless. The Fool was grieving and hurt, and Fitz said nothing more for fear of making it worse. All of the tiny bodies had been buried in the ground, and Fitz did his best not to think of how they'd once slept there, warm and snug. He glanced at the gap in the wall and resolved to come back later that evening to cover it up. He did not want to imagine how the Fool would react if the predator returned and dug up its kills. When the Fool left without a word, Fitz followed silently.

    The Fool wiped his hands off on his motley, the bloody streaks marring the gay effect of the colours in which he was clad. He sadly took the flower out from behind his ear, staring at it wistfully and letting it fall.

    Fitz watched the flower fall with a pang of something like alarm. No longer able to stand doing nothing, but not trusting his mouth, Fitz pulled the Fool to a halt with a hand on his arm, and then wrapped him in another embrace, heedless of who might stop to stare. If the Fool pushed him away, then so be it, but Fitz knew the isolating power of death and he did not want the Fool to be alone.

    The Fool was limp and still in Fitz's embrace, his hands falling loosely to his sides. He did not want to touch Fitz with his bloody hands, but he did rest his head gently on his shoulder, burying his face in the crook of his neck. "Thank you..."

    Fitz tightened his grip. "I'm sorry," he said, quietly.

"It's not fair," the Fool mumbled. "They didn't have to die, Fitz. They didn't have to..."

"No, it isn't fair," Fitz agreed, echoing the Fool's sorrow in his voice. "It shouldn't have happened."

    The Fool could still see the dessicated corpse of the rabbit in his mind, and he could see the light leave its eyes. With shocking clarity, he suddenly saw Fitz's demise in his upcoming mission. He gasped. "Fitz! Don't go to the Mountains. Please."

    Fitz frowned, mistaking the Fool's emotion, and rubbed his back in small circles. "I'm sorry, Fool. I have to. I'll stay with you as long as you like today, though. You don't have to be alone."

    The Fool shook his head frantically. "No, no, please." He looked up, grabbing Fitz's shoulders. "Listen to me. Please. Remember when I told you to listen to me even if I don't make sense?"

    Fitz blinked and looked back at the Fool, trying to understand his sudden alarm. He was frightened, Fitz decided, after seeing his cherished pets die such savage deaths. "I remember, Fool," Fitz said in the soft voice he used for startled horses. "But I must go, it's King Shrewd's order. I will stay with you until the last horse is out of the gate, I swear it, but I cannot stay behind longer than that." Fitz hated to disappoint the Fool, but he knew that he had little choice.

    The Foo **l** closed his eyes and a fresh batch of tears flowed down his cheeks. "You're not listening..." he sighed, but then again he did not really expect Fitz to heed him at all.

    Fitz bowed his head. The Fool's sigh cut through him almost as much as his tears. He'd missed something important, and the Fool had given up on him understanding. Instinctively, he quested out, but the Fool was as invisible as ever to his Wit. "I'm trying to," Fitz said, still softly but with a note of desperation.

"Just..." He blinked suddenly. The Catalyst was supposed to help secure an heir for the Duchies, and this was Verity's wedding ceremony. He had to go. And even if he perished there, he would be fulfilling Fate. There was every chance Fitz might not die, and it would only be if the Fool helped him. He just had to protect him, and he had just the thing to do so.

"Just?" Fitz asked, carefully studying the Fool's face and the way his expression changed with his thoughts.

"Be careful," the Fool said softly. "Do not let your guard down for a moment."

    Fitz relaxed minutely. "I will, I promise." He reached forward to wipe the tears from the Fool's cheeks. He could not imagine doing so for Hands, or Dirk, or Kerry, and he was not sure that he could have managed it so effortlessly with Molly. The Fool had always been different, though.

    The Fool smiled despite his sorrow: Fitz's hands were as warm and gentle as he remembered, and he had missed the closeness they had once shared. "Thank you." He took a step back, forcing himself not to stay too close for too long. "You owe me that game when we get back."

"Yes, we'll play then," Fitz said. "It won't be so long before I'm back, and I'll tell you about the mountains."

    The Fool nodded. "I believe you," he said sincerely. Fitz would come back, and the Fool would make sure of it

 

_     “I have saved Fitz’s life many times. Too many times. Fate is cruel to him, or was. I like to think that She is trying to remedy her mistake now. _

_     “Fitz has saved me too. Fate has been no less cruel to me. There came a moment in my life, and I cannot say exactly which, where I decided I would no longer let Fate hurt me. This did not stop her. She stops when she chooses to. _

_     “I am glad she has chosen to.” _

_ \-- Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	29. On Commencement and Companionship - Reckoning

_     Though the Fool’s unending loyalty is something that I have always been fortunate enough to be able to take for granted. I cannot say that I have always deserved it. Many times, I think, the Fool could have been spared much hurt if he had forgotten me. I am glad he did not. I strive every day to repay that loyalty, devotion, and love. _

    Garetha felt sad at the changing of the seasons. Guiltily, though, because she knew that most welcomed the coming winter. She would miss her flowers, and as she plucked the dead blossoms from their stems the end of the harvest season began to feel more real. The leaves had turned, adding one last bit of colour to the world before it was muted by the whites and greys of winter. The song she hummed was a bit mournful while she went about her tasks.

    Since the loss of his rabbits, the Fool had been visiting the gardens less. He was out today, however, because he was supposed to seek one of the visiting nobles to bring him a message. He had caught the man coming in from a morning ride, and had decided to take one last look at the flowers before he went back inside. His fingertips trailed over the dying blossoms, lingering a moment on the patch of pink ones that he had stolen one of on that last fateful day. He sighed, and a song caught his ear. It was not a song he knew, but it was pleasing nonetheless, and he followed the sound to Garetha.

    Garetha looked up when she saw the Fool approaching and stopped her humming, a blush coming to her cheeks. Here was colour in profusion, and the Fool made up for all of the lack of flowers in the gardens. She smiled and waved to him, dashing a few steps closer and then straightening her hair self-consciously. She hoped that there were no leaves in it, but it was a vain hope. She was forever covered in bits of plants. "Fool! I have not seen you in some time. Did you come to see the last of the flowers?"

    "I hadn't intended to," the Fool told her, returning the wave with a smaller one. "I was drawn by the song," he explained, "or else I might have gone right back inside." Looking at her now, he picked a leaf from her hair and grinned as he tossed it away.

    Garetha blushed and straightened her hair again, smiling embarrassedly. "It was a sad song, I hope I did not bother you with it."

    "Not at all. It is--though these are not many--a song I do not know. I was wondering where it came from."

    Garetha felt a bit pleased. "I could sing it for you if you like. It was one my mum sang, and so I think that it's from inland."

    The Fool tilted his head slightly, and then smiled. "Alright. Although if it's as good as it sounded before, I may have to steal it from you."

    "You would do a much better job at a singing it than I," Garetha looked down and away, but then cleared her throat and sang a few bars. It was about a bird who mourned the passing of summer, and so decided to fly away to find it.

    The Fool blinked as she started the song. It was beautiful, and it provoked a tumult of thought within him. When she was finished, he said softly: "Yes, I think I will have to steal that..."

    Garetha shifted with her hands clasped in front of her. "You can if you like...Do you remember the words already? I could tell them to you again," she offered, hoping that this would give them a chance to talk and perhaps walk through the gardens together.

    "I remember them," the Fool assured her, and recognized that she wanted to converse further. He too could use a distraction from the crippling loneliness he was feeling. "What do you do, when there are no gardens to tend?"

    "Oh, many things. I like to sew, and embroider, and I make little things..." She trailed off, realizing that many of the things she had sewn had been to give to the Fool. The little things filled a basket in her room, and she had never had the courage to give them to him. "I like to hear the minstrels that come to play, and of course I like to watch when you perform. What do you do when you're not at your duties?"

    "I report to King Shrewd," said the Fool, "though I suppose that is among my duties. Alone...I grow flowers in my chambers, and I tend to the fish I keep there. Until very recently, I...I cared for the rabbits near the east wall, but..." He shook his head, and his sorrowful expression was quickly replaced with a grin; there was no need for Garetha to see as deeply into his soul as Fitz did. "And I bother the young princeling, of course. Day in and day out, always rapping at his door and pulling his head from his duties."

    Garetha smiled and was charmed by the Fool's easy grin and his love of flowers and fish. She thought she saw a glimpse of sadness when the Fool mentioned rabbits, but it was gone very quickly, and she did not feel it would be proper to pry. She bit her lip. "Oh, the young prince? Do you mean Regal?" Her brow furrowed in confusion. Regal had always been awful to the Fool as far as she was aware. Did the Fool mean that he took some small revenge by bothering him?

    "No, not Regal!" the Fool huffed. "I wouldn't touch his chamber doors with a fifty foot pole! I meant FitzChivalry. A truer prince."

    "Oh, Fool! You can't say such things!" Garetha laughed at the Fool's indignant response even as she tried to cover it with a hand. "To say that FitzChivalry is a truer prince...If anyone overheard you, I shudder to think what they would do! Regal especially.”

    "El take him," the Fool swore grimly. "FitzChivalry is all a prince ought to be, and he deserves it far more than Regal has ever deserved anything."

    Garetha's eyes widened and she covered the 'o' of her mouth with her fingertips, and then looked around furtively. She had not ever spoken with FitzChivalry, but she had heard rumours of him that she was not much inclined to believe. If the Fool believed that he ought to be a true prince, then he must be deserving of that.. Still, to say such things aloud! "I have never heard you speak an untrue thing, so I know that you believe that, but do be careful of giving voice to such thoughts! Even with King Shrewd's protection, the consequences cannot be good..." Her mind turned to her curiosity, and she tried to steer the conversation toward a safer ground. "You say that you visit FitzChivalry often?"

    The fire of his indignation left the Fool, and he visibly relaxed. "You're right. I apologize...with so many grave happenings upon us lately, I rather allowed my emotion to best me." He nodded to her query. "Oh, yes! Not as often as I would like to, but if I had my way then I would never leave his side." As he spoke of Fitz, his smile slowly grew. "We have been friends for years, and he truly is dear to my heart."

    Garetha relaxed as the Fool abandoned his near-treasonous line of conversation, and she tilted her head while she listened to the Fool speak of his friend. He seemed truly happy, and his smile was not the same one that he gave to the children while he juggled or did tumbling tricks. Garetha wished that she could see it more often. "You look happy when you speak of him," she remarked. "You must be very close..."

    A great sigh left the Fool, and the end of it sounded almost wistful. "Not as close as we once were..." he mumbled. "But yes, he makes me happier than you could imagine."

    Garetha bit her lip again and looked at the Fool. It seemed that he got further away from her the more he spoke of FitzChivalry. The Fool's sigh resonated with her, and she thought of the way her friends would tease her when she spoke of the Fool or when they went to see him perform. She had made no secret of her infatuation. With a little sigh of her own, Garetha said: "I understand...Even though you are not as close as you would like, just moments together are like blinding sunshine or..." She blushed and then trailed off, realizing that what she spoke of was not necessarily the bond between friends.

    "Yes. Like the way the sun shines on the snow." The Fool's tone was almost reverent as he repeated the words that Fitz had once said to him in a dream. Coming back to himself, he looked at her once more. "I'm sorry, it's just that I..." He shook his head. "I miss him, when he's gone."

    Garetha stared, and her lips parted slightly. She searched the Fool's face with her eyes. "Yes...Because when he's gone, you can't help but think about what he could be doing and when you might see one another again...Am I...right?"

    "You are," said the Fool with a nod. If she had not discerned it already, she was getting close to the truth. The Fool had to wonder if she would view his affection with the same disapproval Chade and Shrewd did. Regardless, he could not bring himself to stop. While it lasted, it was nice to be able to talk to someone about Fitz.

    Garetha blinked twice and then looked down and away, hiding a brief look of loss. She took a breath and looked up again. She tried to put a smile on for the Fool, but it was a rather sad one and she hoped that it would be construed as empathy rather than her own sorrow. Like touching a bruise, even though it hurt, to see just how bad it was she continued: "Does he miss you too, do you think?"

    That was a more painful question than Garetha could possibly know. "Perhaps, in his own way," the Fool said cautiously, thinking back once more to all he and Fitz had once shared. "I can only dare hope he misses me as much as I do him."

    Garetha bowed her head. "I'm sorry. It must be difficult not knowing."

    The Fool simply nodded, and then he touched her arm. "Don't lament for me," he said. "He'll be back. He has to be. Perhaps you could meet him, then." He offered her a reassuring smile.

    Garetha tried to smile again, but could not look at the Fool's smile long and so she looked at her own hands instead. They were covered in dirt as usual, and many scrapes and calluses unbefitting of a girl and even less so a woman. She rather envied him his not-knowing then. "Yes, I could," she agreed and then hesitated before asking: "Fool? What would you do if he didn't? Miss you, I mean." It was a rude question, she was sure, but she had to know.

    Garetha's words cut the Fool to the very core, but upon seeing the pain in her eyes he did not fault her for speaking them. It was the same pain he felt whenever he knew Fitz could not see him, and were it not for his duties, he might have asked the same question regarding Molly. "I..." he said softly. "I don't know. Miss him anyways, I suppose." He paused, biting his lip, and tried to catch her eyes again. "I'm sorry, Garetha."

    Garetha glanced at the Fool and almost could not stand the kindness in his expression. She blinked away the tears that welled in her eyes and hid her face so that he would not see. She looked at the bushes instead, and all of the blossoms that had shrivelled with the cold. There were a few more resilient ones left. "Whatever for?" She asked, lightly. She took a breath and squared her shoulders. "I do hope that you'll be happy. I do."

    "I know you do," the Fool replied quietly, "and that's why I'm sorry." It was a vicious cycle, he thought: he lamented Fitz's breaking of his own heart, and yet here he was doing the same to Garetha. But it would be more painful to pretend.

    Garetha straightened her hair again. "I'm afraid that I should get back to my work now," she said with false levity. "It was good to see you again. If you come back another time, I'll have some seeds for you from the striped flowers that you liked last time."

    The Fool winced. He had not meant to upset her so, but there was very little else that could have happened. Her heart had been scorned, after all. "Of course," he said, bowing his head. "It was good to see you too, Garetha." That much, at least, was true. He enjoyed her company. Silently, he turned to walk away from her, and the loneliness he had sought to escape returned tenfold.

_ “In my adult life, I never had much chance to speak with Garetha. She saw through my disguise as Lord Golden, but did not see fit to come speak with me. I cannot blame her for that. I know what it feels to have one’s heart scorned in the way I did to her. What I do not know is what it feels to try to move on. I think in that regard, she was stronger than I ever could have been. _

_     “It seems a strange thing to applaud my own weakness, but in this instance I am thankful for it. I never could move on, and now I have no need to try.” _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	30. On Commencement and Companionship - Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deepest apologies for the delay on this chapter. So much has been happening: we have moved, been working on our novels, and spending time at work. Hopefully updates will be able to come more regularly from this point on.

_     Can a boy ever truly understand the motives of a man? Perhaps, but I was not such a boy. It was not until much later that I was able to look back on all I had known and seen of Burrich and feel close to accepting the way he’d raised me as what he thought was best. How different would things have been if the Wit had not been so reviled? Very, I think. Burrich was unwavering in his belief that the Wit was a thing to be hated, but he did bend, on occasion. He could have tried to beat my magic out of me, but he did not. Despite having cut me out of his life, he still chose to stay by my side when my life had been shattered in The Mountains. He used the magic he hated to bring my body back from death. He felled a dragon with it to save his son. He was a loyal man, and brave. I will never agree with his belief, but I think that the moments he chose to set it aside were moments that spoke to his character as a man. Even when he did not, and he tried to keep me and then Swift from our magic, he did so out of concern and love.  _

 

Burrich dragged himself back into the room, pretending he was not in as much pain as he truly was and instead glancing over at Fitz. For days he had been aware that there were so many things he could have said to the boy, but he could not bring himself to ruin the companionship they had regained after nearly dying together. Though he had turned Fitz out of the stables, Burrich had never stopped loving him. He thought, perhaps, if he could turn a blind eye to the beast Fitz was in danger of becoming, then maybe they could have some semblance of what they once did. "Can you sit up yet?" he asked, a gruff query the safest way for him to start a conversation.

Fitz slid his gaze over to Burrich and looked at him. The man who'd hated him, saved him, and now stayed by his side after nearly being killed for his troubles. Fitz's moments of lucidity were becoming more frequent, but they were almost worse than the oblivion. He had accepted death readily, but somehow he had managed to cling to a pitiful existence. His limbs twitched against his will, and consciousness fled him often. Weak as a newborn kitten, he had not even been able to feed himself. It was hard not to feel despair in the circumstances, and if his mind strayed toward what might await him in Buckkeep, he found himself wondering why he bothered. The last hour or so of his time had been consumed with wondering and vague anxieties. Would he ever recover? Would he recover only to be killed upon his return? Would all know that he was an assassin? He envied the speed with which Burrich had recovered. When he spoke with Burrich in the evenings, he avoided speaking of the future and of anything that they might disagree on. For the last hour of wakefulness though, it had been those things that occupied his mind. "Not yet," Fitz reported glumly.

"Hmmph," Burrich grunted in response. He laboriously bent to undo his boots and then laid back on his bed, trying to appear as though the very action was not hurting him. "Trust me, you don't have that much to look forward to."

Fitz watched as Burrich struggled and blinked away the image of his limp body laying by the bath with blood pooling around his head. "I know that," Fitz said. What did he have to look forward to? Possibly nothing more than death, or perhaps life as a cripple. In keeping with their last conversations, though, Fitz did not give voice to his woes. "Were you visiting the stables?"

"Aye," Burrich replied. "The animals here are just as in need of a good hand as those back home." Burrich sighed, but instead of sounding wistful he made certain to sound irritated: it would do no good to give voice to his despair at being stuck here.

"The stablehands know better than to neglect things in your absence," Fitz said. "You would know at a glance when you returned and all would pay for it."

Burrich gave a dry chuckle. "Is my wrath really so much to be feared, Fitz?" He regretted the question as soon as he asked it, considering how much the boy had hated him and what he had believed him capable of doing

Fitz looked at Burrich for a moment. Their truce was a fragile one, he knew, and in that moment both of their thoughts had gone to an area that they'd both been careful to avoid until that point. Fitz did not look away. "No, I suppose that it isn't," he said at last. "Though you're fearsome enough when you've a mind to be. I've known you to quell the entire men-at-arms room with one black look."

"That was a long time ago," Burrich replied, subdued now. That was before he had lost Chivalry, back when he still had a sense of who he was and his purpose on Eda's green earth. "I'm a different man now."

Fitz considered that. He could not say so, but he agreed. The man he'd been given to as a child had been afforded the utmost respect among the men-at-arms, and he had been a man to be feared as well. Since that time, Burrich's injury had forced him to retire from a soldiering life and Fitz had heard more than one man jest about his limp and the way he'd been left to mind Chivalry's bastard. Burrich had lost much. "Perhaps," Fitz conceded, "But you are in many ways the same, as far as I know. The men still come to you with their injuries when all hope seems lost, and all in the stables respect you. None would question your authority or your knowledge."

Burrich was oddly touched by that. He knew Fitz still used as few words as he could--he always had--but to be awarded those few chosen was an immense honour. "Thank you," he told the boy. After a pause, he said: "It's all thanks to your father, you know."

Fitz blinked and looked at Burrich. Though they had every reason to, they had never talked about his father. Fitz had wondered at the time if that was because of some resentment on Burrich's part, for the bastard who'd made Chivalry abdicate the throne. Fitz was being forced to reconsider many of his old assumptions, though. He chose his words carefully, wanting to draw Burrich into conversation. "What is?" he asked. Simple questions were often the best.

"The fact I've got any respect at all," said Burrich, who was inwardly pleased to see Fitz with a healthy curiosity about his father, instead of the crippling anger that had threatened to overtake him as a child.

Fitz thought about what he knew of Burrich. As much as he hated the man as a child, he had always had a grudging respect for him. That had nothing to do with his father. Fitz could have said so, but he was not entirely sure where they stood with one another anymore, and the idea seemed strange to him. Instead, he said: "You said that you were king’s man to him."

"I was," Burrich replied. "One thing your father never failed at was giving every man a chance. I was nothing when he found me, but he treated me with the respect I had never gotten, and I grew to love him." After another pause--speaking in such an emotional manner was not natural for Burrich--he said: "I think you turned out a lot like him."

Fitz's eyes widened. He had been compared to his father often, and by many people. From Burrich, though, and after those words, the comparison sounded like it was the highest praise. Fitz let the words sink in for a long moment and he hoped that his expression was not as incredulous as he thought it was. Burrich had always seemed to regard him as a burden, and then as something tainted once he'd discovered his wit-bond to Nosey. It felt odd to think that Burrich might regard him in such high esteem as the words implied. "Thank you," Fitz said, and it was the first time he'd ever thanked someone for likening him to his father. Putting aside the maneuvering and subtleties, Fitz asked: "Will you tell me what you knew of him? Verity has offered to tell me some things, but you knew him in a different way."

Yes, Burrich thought. Fitz really had grown up. "What is it you want to know?" he asked, and he found that of all the people who had ever wanted to know the Prince's true self, it was Fitz that he did not mind speaking to of the matter.

Fitz considered what he could ask. He could not choose any specific thing as more important out of the many things he did not know about the man who sired him, and so he asked the first that came to mind. "Did he love my mother?"

Burrich considered this carefully. He had never met Fitz's mother, nor had Chiv told him much of the woman. What he did know was that it had not been a lapse of character of Chivalry's part, merely a lapse of judgement. "Your father wasn't the kind of person who would break vows with someone he did not care for deeply." That was as close as Burrich knew to the truth, and he liked to think that Chivalry had a reason for all that he had done.

Fitz had liked to think that was the case. As a child, he had not been able to understand why his father would leave his mother if he truly cared for her, but having spent years in court and having been educated in the darker aspects of politics, Fitz thought that he could understand and perhaps forgive Chivalry for that. He nodded. "Any man you would serve so faithfully must have been a good one," Fitz said after a moment to choose his words. Feeling rather looser of tongue than he was normally, and attributing it to his sickness, he said: "But I think that my father would have seen something in you too. I did not know him, but I knew you without him. You rule the stables like a king should rule his kingdom, and you were loyal enough to stay true and do your duty, even when that duty was only to mind his horses, and his hawks, and his bastard son."

Burrich was uncomfortable with how strongly those words struck him. He cleared his throat and looked at the ceiling. "Well...all duties I was honoured to attend," he muttered. He wondered when Fitz had become so eloquent, and knew that the boy had not learned it from him.

Fitz looked up at the ceiling too. The same ceiling he'd been looking at for days now. He sensed that they were both uncomfortable speaking of such things, but could not regret having said the words. Burrich had nearly died protecting him, and he had beaten Galen in front of the Witness Stones, and he had done his best by him truly. Without the lens of his childhood bitterness to see through, Fitz felt grateful that Burrich had done his best by him. "I'm sure that the animals and the stablehands will be glad to have you back," Fitz said, returning to their earlier topic.

"I wonder if Stalwart's dropped her foal yet," Burrich mused aloud, furthering the conversation away from the topic of Chiv. "Yes, I suppose I do have a good many waiting for me to get back." After a moment, and without changing his tone, he added: "I'm sure Sooty misses you."

"She's had others to groom and care for her," Fitz said, trying and failing not to sound bitter about that.

"Horses can tell the difference between men," Burrich remarked. It was one of the first things he had taught Fitz, and he knew the boy knew it well.

Fitz let his anger go with a sigh. "I know," he said. It was a large enough concession from Burrich to acknowledge that Fitz could have any relationship at all with a beast. It had been good of him, Fitz reflected, to say nothing regarding the way he'd quested out to comfort Nosy. "I hope that I'll be able to ride her again."

"I've no doubt you will, boy. And a good thing, too, since it's a long walk back to Buckkeep." Burrich had always had a bleak sense of humour, and he realized belatedly that perhaps now was not the best time to exhibit it.

Back to Buckkeep. Fitz's mind turned toward that road again, and he frowned. So many uncertainties. "Do you suppose that we'll live if we go back, Burrich?" he asked, bluntly.

"I think we're safer there than we are here," Burrich replied. "Regal might be after us, but King Shrewd and Prince Verity are good men, and I doubt that two-faced prince would try anything in the heart of the realm." He sounded more sure of this than he was; after all, Cob had attacked him in his own stables.

Fitz shut his eyes in a long blink before opening them again. An assassin was useless if all knew his existence. Bad enough that Regal knew his training. An assassin with fits and tremors was probably worse than useless. "You've your duties as Stablemaster waiting for you, at least. I'm not sure that I have anything." Fitz knew that he sounded sullen, but could not help himself.

"You've your duties too," Burrich reminded him. "I'm sure...Lady Patience...might have fits if you're not returned to her. She's overbearing--overprotective, that way."

Fitz had not thought about Lady Patience in some time, he realized. He thought of their last meeting, and her last words to him advising him to behave with honour because he was Chivalry's son. Not long afterward, the Fool had come to him with Seapurge. Fitz owed his life to the Fool's gift, and he ruefully wished that he'd paid more heed to the Fool's warnings. He smiled at Burrich's description of Patience. "She is that, and the Fool has probably been worried." And Chade, too, he thought. Fitz felt ashamed for his earlier words. He did have people waiting for him.

Burrich raised an eyebrow. "The Fool too, then? Still? I remember you speaking of him years ago, but I did not know if the friendship had lasted."

Fitz hadn't realized that Burrich wouldn't have been aware of his continued friendship with the Fool, and he looked at him. Night was coming, but had not yet fully arrived. They had time yet, and they had skirted around several difficult subjects. "Yes," Fitz said, deciding that this was at least a safe thing to discuss. "We do not see one another regularly, but I would still consider him to be my closest friend."

Burrich acknowledged this with a grunt and a nod. He had not had a true friend for years, and he was glad the boy had avoided the misfortune of falling into the same rut.

What could he possibly say about the Fool, Fitz wondered. Burrich was not the type of man to spend words on idle chatter, and Fitz had never been talkative. As such, these few days at the mountain kingdom probably represented the longest conversations they'd had with one another. "Some of the people of the keep fear him," Fitz began, "but he's very kind. Some of the jests he makes can seem cruel, but only when it's deserved. With the children, he will always turn the jest back on himself. He's good with animals, too, in a way you would approve of, I think. He's stayed with me through countless difficult times."

"Only child who ever made me laugh as hard as I did, that's for sure," Burrich acknowledged. "You could do worse for a friend."

Fitz recalled abruptly the incident with the horse, and he smiled widely. "I could not hope to do better," he corrected.

Burrich looked over in surprise at Fitz's heartfelt words, but he remembered how much he himself had cared for Chiv and nodded. "Alright, then. You have one true friend waiting for you back at Buckkeep, and to me that sounds more important than all the stablehands combined." Fitz always had been destined for more than Burrich had.

Fitz blinked at Burrich. In all the years he'd known him, he did not think that Burrich had taken a lover. Burrich was still well-known among the guard, but he did not seem to have taken any of them into his confidence. How could he not have realized before how alone Burrich was? He had questions, but they were none of them things he could give voice to. Why had Burrich never married, or even courted that Fitz could tell? Why did he hold himself apart from the other guardsmen? Even the stablehands he treated with professionalism before friendship. Fitz felt sure by now that Burrich was Witted, but he held his magic in such contempt that Fitz doubted he had bonded with any animal. He found he felt sorry for him, but Burrich would have hated nothing so much as that and so Fitz kept the expression from his face. Before the silence could stretch awkwardly, Fitz continued. "I do have him, and Verity has always been kind to me. There was a girl, too. I had hoped she would have me, but I think that I've lost her."

Burrich intook a sharp breath through his nose. Perhaps Fitz had stumbled across more of his misfortunes than he had thought. "I'm sorry," he said, and then: "Don't give up on her unless she's given up on you."

"I'm afraid she has," Fitz said. "Perhaps I've still got a chance, but she was walking on the arm of another man when last I saw her. Older than me, and a sailor."

Burrich snorted. "Much good a sailor'll do her. Always at sea and never having time for her. A girl with good sense would want to keep her husband close. That there says something for your chances."

It felt good to hear Burrich so dismissive of Jade. Fitz entertained a brief thought about returning to Buckkeep and winning her away with all of the romantic gestures and sweet words he had been too awkward to say before. Then he raised one clumsy hand and watched the way it trembled. "Thank you," he said, woodenly, and then dropped his hand again.

"You're welcome," Burrich replied. He glanced over to see what Fitz was doing. "It'll pass," he said, "I've seen men your age come back from worse."

Fitz was not consoled. "When the boar got your leg, did you worry?" he asked. Perhaps the question had been somewhat unkind, he realized, but his tone had only been curious.

Burrich grumbled something under his breath and looked away again. "Get some more rest," he snapped.

Fitz sighed. He regretted having given offence, but could not bring himself to apologize for it. They had talked frankly of a lot of things, and Fitz was privately surprised that such a reaction had not come sooner. "Good night, Burrich."

"Night," Burrich grunted, mostly because he did not want Fitz to think he was ignoring him from anger.

 

_     “Those weeks when Fitz came close to death in the Mountains were harder to bear than the fifteen years I spent in Bingtown. If Burrich, a man I respected greatly but never grew to like, had not been there, I wonder how much more unbearable the rest of my life would have been.” _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _


	31. On Commencement and Companionship - Disquiet

_ My lady wife, _

_     I write now in the hopes that you will be well and our child happy and healthy when you read this. I know not how long my quest for the Elderlings will take, but it is my hope to see you soon. There are many things I wish to say to you, and I would much rather you heard the words from my own lips rather than as mere ink on parchment. _

_     However, it is a reality that we must both face that this quest is a dangerous and possibly futile one. I may not return, and in case I do not, I would have you know my mind and my heart now.  _

_     First, I wish to apologize. To you and to our child. In the time since you have arrived at Buckkeep as my wife, you have proven yourself to be a more capable and more intuitive ruler than I could ever be. Truly my father and brother chose well when they chose you. I could not have asked for a better wife or queen-in-waiting. In truth, I have much I could have learned from you regarding the love of a people for their ruler and the things that ruler owes his or her people. I failed to praise you as you deserve as a queen-in-waiting, and I failed to treat you as you deserve as my wife. Truly you are remarkable, and I hope to come to know you better in the years to come. I would like very much to be a decent husband to you and father to our child. _

_     Second, I wish to make my will known. I understand that FitzChivalry has been your companion and advisor. Indeed, he has done his best to advise me as well, where it concerns you. I should have listened. In my absence, please rely on FitzChivalry and trust his counsel. There is no one in court other than yourself whom I would trust more. If I have not returned by the time our child is of an age to learn, please have FitzChivalry teach him what he is to know about court politics, history, and so on. I have no doubt that you will do admirably in that task, but some knowledge he has gained as a bastard Farseer cannot be taught by anyone else. _

_     Third, I love you. I don’t believe I told you that enough. _

_ \-- Missive from King-in-Waiting Verity Farseer to his wife, Queen Kettricken Farseer _

    Verity could not for the life of him tell how he had managed to mouth pleasantries and maintain his smile through the remainder of the pledging ceremony. His mind was a roiling tempest with thoughts of death narrowly avoided, treason, and the ambitions of his younger half-brother. Verity was under no illusions that Rurisk's death and Galen's treachery could have occurred without Regal's influence, if not outright orchestration. He felt strong. Stronger than he had in months thanks to the gift of strength from FitzChivalry and what power he stole from Galen. He felt filthy with it, even though he could not help but relish feeling like something other than a weary old man. 

    As soon as he had been able to speak with his father alone, he had. He had reported all that he knew from FitzChivalry's brief Skilling and his own experience, and he waited with his eyes burning like coals for Shrewd to acknowledge his mistake. To recognize that Regal had become a serpent. To do anything other than stroke his beard and think. Verity stood and he waited, his fists trembling with restrained emotion rather than fatigue. He ultimately left disappointed. As he strode from the King's chambers, a small bit of fear breached his anger. He would soon have to return to his preparations for war and his Skilling, and who knew what plots his father would turn a blind eye to next?

    The Fool had listened to Verity's tale with bated breath, trembling as he heard Fitz's fate laid out before him. He would have known if his Catalyst had died, but it was too close for comfort. Verity's story explained the night the Fool had woken up unable to breathe, shaking and with tears streaming down his face. It had passed quickly, but he had been worried since. When Verity left, the Fool was certain that King Shrewd would summon Regal to punish him, but he did nothing. As such, the Fool cast the King an apprehensive glance and hurried after Verity. "Prince Verity!" he called out, sprinting down the hall.

    Verity paused and turned to see his father's Fool running after him. For a moment he was bewildered by the occurrence. He took a breath to calm himself and then turned to face the Fool fully. "Fool," he acknowledged, and he realized just how few words they had exchanged over the years. "Did my father send you to tell me something?"

    The Fool stopped a respectful few feet from Verity, trying to hide his panic as he bowed. "No, sir," he said. "No, I...I was hoping I might have a moment with you. To talk. About Fitz, I mean." He realized after the words had left him that Prince Verity had probably never heard anything from him but the cadence of a jester, but now was not the time to be concerned with that.

    Verity blinked and then nodded, a cloud of concern passing over his features. He could not be sure that the boy had survived despite his efforts to shove him back into his body. Verity passed a hand through his hair. "Yes, of course. You two are good friends, aren't you? Come with me. We can talk more privately in my map room."

    The Fool nodded quickly, falling into step behind Verity. He fidgeted with his hands as they walked, and neither the bells on his motley nor his feet on the floor made any noise. He worried at his lip, but he did not speak again until he was given permission to do so.

    Verity wondered briefly whether his father would mind the Fool's absence, but he did not ask. The Fool had come after him of his own will, and he trusted that the boy had made that decision fully aware of whatever consequences it might have. 

    He had no guards at his map room, and he opened the door to admit the Fool himself. The place was dusty and smelled of disuse. How long had it been since he had had time to do more than Skill? Shrugging those thoughts away, Verity crossed to his desk. "Take a seat," he offered, gesturing at a chair. He sank into his own with a sigh and looked at the Fool. He seemed anxious, and Verity offered him a small smile to try to calm his nerves. "You wanted to talk with me about Fitz, correct? The boy was alive when last I touched minds with him."

    When the Fool sat, he pulled his feet up onto the chair and wrapped his arms around his legs, resting his chin on his knees. "But what have you heard from him? I..." He wondered if he should tell Verity what he had felt, but thought better of it. He did not even know if the Prince knew about his Prophecy. "I've heard that sometimes the Skill can...break a man's mind."

    Verity gave the Fool a sympathetic look. His concern was understandable, and Verity would not coat the truth with platitudes. He spoke as gently as he could to soften the truth. "That is true, and much as I regret it, I felled two men with it today. Galen is dead, and I know not what will become of August..." Verity shook his head. "That was not the case with Fitz. He flung his strength to me without reservation, but what I did not use I forced back on him whether he would have it or not. It was his words that worried me: 'Take it all. I would die anyway. And you were always good to me when I was young'. I put him back into his body before he could burn out, but I know not what happened after that. I'm sorry."

    The Fool looked aside, and no amount of blinking could stop the tears that slid down his cheeks. "I would know if he was dead," he whispered, "but what if there's nothing left of him that's truly alive?"

    Verity dug in a drawer for a scrap of cloth and offered it to the Fool. It was old, but soft and clean. "Fitz was very much himself while we Skilled, and his mind was intact when I left it. Whatever danger he faced was to his body and not his mind. If it is as you say and the boy still lives, then I am relieved."

    The Fool wiped at his eyes, but the tears kept coming. "It was Regal," he muttered, burying his face in his knees. "I heard what you told King Shrewd; Regal tried to k--" He choked on the word. "To kill Fitz."

    Verity's brow furrowed while he watched the Fool cry. It was disconcerting to see the usually merry little fellow in tears, and it struck Verity that it was because it made him seem more human. Fitz had said that the boy had a kind heart, and Verity regretted not making the time to get to know the Fool a little. He had been his only ally in convincing his father to let him build their warships, and he was more perceptive than many gave him credit for. "I think so too," Verity confirmed bluntly. "But we have no proof of that, and Regal has always been a crafty one. We're lucky that Fitz survived. I had tried to convince my father, but as usual he is reluctant to hear me speak ill of his youngest son..." Seeing that the Fool's tears did not stop, Verity reached over to pat him on the shoulder. "There, now. I promise you that Fitz's mind was intact when our Skilling was done, and Regal would not be so bold as to try to kill him a second time. Not now that he knows I'm wary of his ambitions."

    A single sob escaped the Fool when he felt Verity's hand on his shoulder, but he quickly reined himself in. He sniffled and looked up. "I can't protect him," he said, and he met Verity's eyes with his own pale gaze. "I haven't the power. You do. Please."

    "I will do my best," Verity promised. He had no desire to see his nephew killed. Busy as he was with his Skilling, it would not take much to make it clear that Fitz was his: continue to send him on errands, perhaps have him educate Kettricken on Six Duchies culture. A fresh wave of anger rose in him at the thought that Regal would be so bold as to engineer this plot. Hopefully he would take the warning he had been given. Verity met the Fool's gaze. "You care for FitzChivalry a great deal, don't you?"

    The Fool nodded. "Never have I met anyone more important." He wiped the final tears from his eyes and balled the cloth up in his hand. "I care for him above a...any other friend I have." He had almost said 'all else,' but he knew that was too close to treason against his king.

    Verity leaned back in his chair. It was reassuring to know that the two boys had such good friends in each other. Life in Buckkeep would have been very lonely for them otherwise, Verity thought. "Keep an eye on him for me, then. With my Skilling I cannot be about the keep as much as I would like to be, and gossip does not travel to my tower often. If you have any concerns, you have my permission to bring them to me."

    The Fool let out a breath he did not know he had been holding. "Thank you, my prince," he said. "I will watch him more than I have been, and I will ensure that you have all the knowledge you need to protect him. I swear it." It was a solemn thing to hear from a child, but the Fool meant it wholeheartedly.

    Hearing the Fool sound so like an adult, Verity wondered where all the years had gone. Had not the Fool and Fitz been just waist-high not so long ago? And now they had become tangled in the political schemes of court, one of which had nearly killed Fitz and Verity both. Verity probably would have died if not for Fitz's desperate Skilling, he thought. What mad place was this that children had need to fear for their lives and sacrifice them for their elders? "And you've my word as well that I will do my best to keep him from harm," Verity promised. "You must have been very worried to hear me speak of all that went on to my father. Have I put some of your fears to rest?"

    The Fool nodded, slowly at first but more sure of himself after. "Yes, Prince Verity. Thank you." He offered the Prince his hand to make their deal official; he could afford to take no doubts.

    Verity smiled kindly and shook the Fool's hand. "You can stay here to dry your eyes for a time, if you like. I am the only one who uses this room, so you needn't fear being disturbed."

    The Fool shook his head and stood. When he wiped his eyes a final time, there was no sign he had been crying except for a faint pink around the rims, which someone would have to look closely to see.

    Verity nodded once to the Fool in both acknowledgement and dismissal. It was good to know that there was one soul in the keep at least who had taken his concerns about Regal seriously. Was it not enough that he had war to contend with? Did Regal truly have to make a bid for the throne at this time? With luck, that would be the end of his scheming, but luck had not seemed to favour Verity lately.

_     “While the Fool was the mask I wore to best suit my purposes in Buckkeep during my childhood, there were many times where I found it had slipped and I was simply Beloved in the Fool’s shoes. I am fortunate that those around whom this happened were trustworthy: King Shrewd, Prince Verity, and FitzChivalry. At those times, the last thing on my mind was maintaining the Fool’s facade. Though the whole of the world depended on my skill in weaving the tapestry, I was just a child still, frightened both for my own life and my Catalyst’s. I believe it was the simple fact of being a child that spared my lapses from becoming serious missteps. After all, none can fault a child for their fear. Had I done something similar during my time as Amber or Lord Golden, I may have failed. Fitting, then, that I made so many mistakes in childhood from which to learn.” _

_ \--Writings of the Forty-Seventh Prophet _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends On Commencement and Companionship, the parallel to Assassin's Apprentice. Our parallel to Royal Assassin, On Wolves and Wisdom, should begin soon.


End file.
